


Caution: Flammable

by FortinbrasFTW



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, High School, M/M, michael/amanda romance scenes, rich kid michael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 05:39:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 49,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4127160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FortinbrasFTW/pseuds/FortinbrasFTW
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For quarterback Michael Townley, king of Sandy Heights High, things don't seem like they could get much better: excellent car, sports-star status, the hottest girlfriend in school. But things start to slip when he meets a sharp eyed punk, spitting reality with a violent streak even worse than the one Michael tries to keep tied up in the dark. Suddenly, the suburban teenage dream doesn't seem as perfect as everyone would like him to believe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I saw too much awesome high school au art and couldn't help myself. Not sure how long it will be. Mix probably coming soon.

There’s always that moment, where everything seems to almost still.

The sound of so many voices, cheers, screams, all of it, fades. Soft and empty. Washed away by the pure white of the light all around. It seems like there’s nothing but time when just a moment ago there couldn’t be less. But now there’s all the time in the world. As much as he wants. Whatever he fucking wants. 

He feels his body slow, ease into the weightlessness of it like slipping into warm water. Textures suddenly come alive against the sensation: the surface of the ball under his gloved fingers, all those little goosebumps like a girl’s stomach under breath. Grass, beneath his shoes, each blade pulling taut and strained under his sneaker as he turns, aims. His own breath, suddenly the only noise in the world, wrapped around him inside the helmet, warm, close, easy.

One breath. Plenty of time. Endless.

He throws.

Time snaps back. The boulder of a defender hit him shoulder first. The ground comes up faster than he’s ready for. His gut clenches breathless as his skull thuds against the padding of the helmet. He tastes just a tinge of iron blood inside the familiar plastic of his mouthguard. But he’s smiling. It’s too late. Time already stood still for him.

“Mother fucker!” he hears the guard spit, pounding the turf once.

Michael smiles wider. Suddenly the ground’s a whole lot more comfortable. He can hear the cheers again. Who the hell couldn’t hear cheers that damn loud?

“Son of a bitch,” the defender’s standing now.

“Hey now, let’s keep it sportsman like,” Michael throws, but his opponet’s already gone.

There’s hands around his arms, more than a few. They pull him off the grass, all covered in the smell of plastic and grass stains and lots of damn sweat. 

“You did it!” 

“Did you see that fucking jackass?” 

“That must have been a hundred yards, man!” 

“I can’t believe it— ” 

“We won, Townley! Townley?”

Michael catches a hand around his helmet, whipping it back and off. The summer air drifts in, dry and sweet as anything. He can feel the cool trails of sweat staining his temples, his cheeks. There’s arms around his waist - his shoulders. And it’s not just their voices anymore. It’s all of them. Hundreds. 

“TOWNLEY! TOWNLEY! TOWNLEY!”

He closes his eyes. The smile unfolds across his face in one smooth drag.

“MICHAEL!” Someone’s jumping into his arms. He realizes just in time to catch her. Lips on his, warm and wet and so damn soft. She tastes like she always does, like the cherry stuff that melts in the cupholders of her car. Her thighs wrap around his waist easily, mouth trying to kiss him and keep smiling all at once. He can feel the pompoms tickling the back of his neck, her round ass in those little spankies fitting so easily right into his hands as he holds her up and kisses her back.

She pulls back, eyes all blue glitter. Gorgeous. Fucking gorgeous. 

“We won,” she grins, voice low. Just for him.

“We won.”

“You won.”

He grins, hands tightening firmly. “I won.”

 

It doesn’t take long to get out of the locker room. They carried him in, almost smacking his head on the damn door frame and earning a yell from Coach who still couldn’t seem to get the smile off from under his mustache. Post-game is a blur, all buzzing blood, chest filled with that glow that he gets when things slow down and go just right, like there’s a power plant in there ready to light up the whole damn coast. 

By the time they make it out of there the crowd is still celebrating, groups circling around the brightly lit green, singing, chanting, cheering. 

He doesn’t look for his parents. Why bother? He feels good. Damn good. Why ruin it?

“Cheap shot, that guy right at the end there.” Ramirez yells over to them against the lingering noise. He’s back in his jacket, neat “07” over the breast-side pocket.

“Hey man, thought he had a shot, can you blame him?” Coopers calls back, pushing the length of his hair back from his face. “I couldn’t believe the throw, I don’t know how you do it man.”

“Just throw the ball,” Michael answers.

“Bullshit,” Jackson shouts from just behind them, catching up fast. “Yeah, so humble man. No one’s buying it. You know you’re a damn rockstar.”

“You’re the one who caught it.”

“Yeah, well someone told me to be down the left.”

“And you listened,” Michael smiles.

“Damn right,” Jackson grins back. “Seriously man. Damn good throw.”

“Damn good play,” Ramirez adds.

“Damn good game,” Michael finishes.

“Oh boy,” Coopers warns, slowing his pace suddenly. “Here we go.”

There’s a few short squeals and suddenly the smell of suntan-oil and rose condition floods around them. The girls ease into the group as natural as anything, their cheerleading uniforms traded for crop tops, jean shorts, flip-flops, jingling earrings.

Amanda smiles back at him as she knits into his side. She’s wearing his jacket. He always gives it to her for the day before a game. She insists it brings him good luck. He couldn’t be more sure that was a complete load of bullshit, but it makes her glow like nothing else for the whole day. And he likes the way she wears it. It gives her a posture. Her shoulders seem to sit back all on their own. Chest out. Chin up. Like that jacket made her a queen, with the neat “Townley 00” across her left breast. He liked that. He liked how even now she slipped her arm around his hip and easily moved them to the front, leading the rest as they laugh and joke their way off the field and into the hard-dirt parking lot behind the grounds-keepers sheds.

“What are we going to do now? I feel like doing something!” Blake calls, walking backwards in front of Coopers, red hair tossed over one shoulder.

“Something fun,” Coopers agrees.

“Nah, something dull as shit,” Ramirez grins.

“Shut the fuck up, man” Coopers returns. 

“Yeah,” Christie mocks, jock voice ridiculous and too high. “Shut the fuck up, man.”

“What do you want to do, Mike?” Jackson calls.

They’re at the cars. His Audi’s almost invisible in the shadows, all smooth edges and shiny darkness.

He leans back against the hood. Amanda slips easily between his knees, bare thighs against his jeans. 

Michael’s smile is lazy on his lips. His hair’s still wet from the showers, taking the edge right off the heat of the dry summer night. Amanda’s eyes shine back at him, so filled with sparking stupid eager life.

“I could get fucked up.”

“Second that,” Coopers hoots.

“How?” Jackson asks. 

“Yeah we drank all that Vodka I got off my mom,” Christie frowns.

“So, go get some more,” Ramirez says.

“I can’t. I think she started counting the bottles. Bitch.”

“What about you Coop, didn’t you have those High Life’s we got off that dude at the Walmart?”

“Gone man. We finished those last weekend.”

Amanda wraps both arms around his neck. Michael can feel the charms on her bracelet cool against his skin. “Your dad has the big cabinet, Michael. He wouldn’t notice a bit missing would he?”

“No fucking chance.” 

She doesn’t argue. None of them do.

“So what?” Jackson asks after a minute.

Michael looks up. The streetlights are bright all around the school, but he thinks he still might be able to see a few stars.

“We’re stars man. Proper fucking local heroes. Let’s go to the gas station. Right around the corner.”

“You serious?” Coopers asks.

“Someone’s got to be willing to get a few Local Champs a couple beers, right?”

Amanda looks skeptical. “I don’t want to get arrested, Michael.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Mand.”

“I’m serious. My mom will kick my ass. I can’t loose my record before application season—“

“We’ll go,” Michael says simply. “We’ll park the car down the road, walk over, you girls can just stay behind. We’ll take care of it.”

“I don’t need to wait in the car,” Blake insists, leaning against Coopers’ shoulder.

“We don’t need a fucking gang of high-schoolers shuffling their heels outside the station. It’s easier if we just go.”

There’s silence.

“Right?”

“Yeah man,” Ramirez grins back. “That’s right. You got it.”

“Just get some vodka, yeah?”

“Jesus christ, Chistie.”

 

It doesn’t take long to get to the station. They leave the Jeep, the Audi, girls, and Jackson in the lot across the way. Michael’s instincts were good. The parking lot around the dull white lights of the gas pumps is filled with post-game buzz. 

“Good call man, this should just take a second.” Coopers says, already heading towards the nearest truck pulled up to a pump.

Michael grabs his arm. “Hold up, hold up.”

“What?”

“Don’t be a idiot, alright.”

“This was your idea!” Coopers hisses.

“Yeah, but it’s not my idea to be a jackass. Just chill out. Let’s do this right the first time. Unless you want to get your ass kicked off the team along with the rest of us.”

Coopers gives in. He always does. They all do. Sometimes he wonders if he hates that more than he likes it.

“What then?” Ramirez asks.

Michael steps back, letting an attitude of calm ease over him. “Let’s just take it in for a moment. Consider the options.”

“Who to ask you mean?”

Michael just manages not to roll his eyes. Thankfully they shut up.

He starts to look. There’s the truck. The guy’s still by the pumps. He’s talking to the guy in the Prius across the way. They were at the game. He can tell. But older. Parents likely. He’s not sure who’s. There’s a woman trying to ignore them, clicking one fingernail idly on the pump. Not good options. There’s about four guys getting into a beat-up Jetta by the doors but they’re almost gone already. And four of them. Not ideal.

“What the fuck?” Ramirez mumbles.

Michael ignores it, peering against the white street-lights for better options.

“Yo, man,” he feels Ramirez tug his shoulder. “Check this shit out.” He’s looking into the station. 

“What?” Coopers asks.

“Look at that, there, at the counter,” Ramirez insists.

Michael looks. “Shit.”

“That’s—“ Coopers leans forward. “Isn’t that dude in _our_ class?”

There’s a kid at the counter. Three 40s are neatly lined up in front of him, amber beer glowing inside. The kid’s leaning against the countertop, tapping a folded set of bills against the lottery tickets with what actually looks like bored impatience. 

“Yeah man, shit, he’s in my Bio class, at least the four days he’s actually showed up,” Ramirez says.

The man behind the counter takes his money, handing him back what must be an ID, which he pockets. The cashier starts putting the 40s in a brown paper bag.

“What the fuck? How old is he?”

“Our age man, I swear.”

“He’s not some dumb-ass hold back?”

Ramirez gives Coopers a look. “Held back three years?”

“Hey, it happens - he looks a bit stupid. Right Mike? Hey, Mike, MIKE—!”

Michael’s already walking across the parking lot. The others hurry to catch up. He doesn’t go right to the door. There’s a crazy red truck parked to one side. All alone. He heads towards it, picking a spot not too close to the door or the vehicle but right between it and the path to the station. The kid turns the corner as soon as Ramirez and Coopers catch up.

“Hey—“ Michael calls, giving a short wave.

The kid looks up with vague interest. “Ah.” It’s all he says. But he stops walking.

Michael recognizes him then. He has seen him around. One class. Rarely shows up. He can’t seem to remember which one. He has a greasy sort of look, like rat that’s been swimming through oily water. Skinny. Scrubby. He’s wearing a tank top in the heat. His limbs are a bit too long but he doesn’t seem to mind it. He carries himself with a sort of control that Michael doesn’t normally associate with lanky teenage dirtbags. The kid seems perfectly aware of each and everything around them, but convinced none of it could possibly be interesting. Except maybe him. 

His eyes are focused on Michael, heavy lidded, but sharp underneath it. Quick to evaluate and travel in a way that isn’t nervous. Smart, Michael realizes suddenly.

“Hey, man,” Michael says again. The smile slides onto his cheeks, all practices ease and affability. “Aren’t you in our class?”

“Aren’t you standing in front of my fucking truck?” he observes calmly. Michael was right about smart. It’s crisp as ice on the grate of the kid’s voice. Smart ass then. That will make this interesting.

Michael can feel Coopers prickling behind him, but he keeps smiling through it. “Yeah, well we saw you in there, you’re new right? Started this year.”

“Started what?” the kid pushes back, voice nothing but tease.

“We just saw you, thought we’d say hey.”

“How congenial,” the kid smiles. It’s an interesting smile. Unsettling. Michael suddenly remembers stouts that used to get into his uncle’s chickens and rip through them without actually eating anything. Maybe if stouts could smile they’d look a bit like that.

“Were you at the game man?” Ramirez asks, trying to help.

The lazy disinterest on the kid’s face is fading into sharper focus. Something about this is amusing him. Michael’s pretty sure it’s not what he was hoping for though.

“How was the game, champ?” he turns back to Michael. “Get enough little teabag taps in there, sport? Meet your weekly quota?”

“Hey man, watch your attitude,” Coopers can’t seem to hold back. 

The kid steps closer to Michael. Close enough to smell. Booze. A few kinds. Weed is in there somewhere as well. And something like leather left in the sun too long.

“Why?” he grins. He hasn’t stopped looking at Michael. “Where do you want it to go?”

“Look man, sorry,” Michael gives Coopers a look. But Ramirez seems a little less willing to keep him back now. He’s eyeing the kid like he’s something he didn’t want on his shoes. “We’re just looking to get a drink. Celebrate a little. You know.”

“Celebrate,” he repeats. He doesn’t look away from Michael’s eyes. “Your big fat game?”

“Yeah.” Michael doesn’t blink. There’s something about the way this kid is looking at him. He can feel his own eyes hardening on their own, daring the others to blink first. “You know me?”

“Mmm,” the kid’s somehow closer. Michael doesn’t remember him moving. “Townley.”

“You know me.”

The kid raises an eyebrow half an inch. “Your name’s on your jacket.”

Shit. He forgot he took it off Amanda. He thought it would help. Shows just how much he fucking knows. 

“Look man,” Ramirez calls, “are you going to get us some booze or not?”

The kid holds Michael’s eye. “Why would I?”

“How about we don’t smash your head on your faggy car here?” Coopers can’t seem to help.

The kid’s smile widens. Or at least more teeth slip free from his lips. “With cheekbones like that sweetheart I wouldn’t be throwing around that kind of language. Someone might want to teach you a thing or two.”

Michael’s actually shocked. This kid is alone. There’s three of them. Three. And while the kid is maybe an inch taller than Michael he’s certainly shorter than the others and they all must have at least fifty pounds on him. But he doesn’t look afraid. He doesn’t look close to fucking concerned.

He turns back to Michael while the other two try to pull their shit back together. “Cash?”

Michael stares. “Uh, what?”

“Cash. Money. Denarios.”

Michael realizes what he’s saying. He tries to push away the fucked logic of this whole moment and pulls a hand out of his pocket with a money-clip between two fingers. He eases a hundred dollar bill from the fold then pauses. “Money when you bring the stuff back.” 

The knife-sharp eyes stare right back. “Money now.”

“Look man, fuck this,” Ramirez calls. “Let’s just raid Blake’s garage and blame her junkie brother again.”

“Sounds like a lovely night,” the kid smiles at Michael. And to his own surprise Michael feels himself smile back. A real smile. 

He hands him the bill.

“Mike what the fuck?” Coopers calls.

“Back in five,” the kid says, “try not to start a rally.” He’s already turned back to the store.

“There’s no way he’s getting that much booze man, that was too much,” Ramirez shakes his head. “He was just in there. It’s too obvious, and he’s only got a fake anyways.”

“Seems like it must be a pretty good one,” Michael notes.

“I’m out of here,” Coopers calls, “I’m not waiting for him to call the cops on us.”

“And himself?” Michael observes, watching through the window. He can just see the top of the kid’s dark-haired head moving between the aisles. 

“Whatever man.”

It’s not quick. Michael’s about to start wondering himself if they should head back to the car when a dull electronic ding at the door on the front sounds. There’s a few steps and he’s back around the corner. A paper bag is shoved into Michael’s hands. It’s heavy. Michael peers down into it.

“Where’s the change?”

“Service fees,” the kid says, “economy’s a bitch these days.”

Michael stares at him. “That was a hundred bucks. This can’t be more than fifty of booze.”

“More like forty actually. Hope you like cheap beer.”

Something sparks under Michael’s skin and he can feel the air catch it.

“Kick his ass, Mike.” Coopers. Of course.

The kid hasn’t looked away from his eyes. He’s closer than before.

“Yeah,” he grins, narrowing his eyes. His voice is low. Personal. “Kick his ass, Mikey.”

And god he really could. There’s the fluttering light of the game still shoving against the inside of his chest, ready to snap free and bring down hell. And somehow, impossibly, looking back at this ratty kid, that feeling in his chest is staring right back at him. A flicker of eager fire. Waiting just behind the darkened corners. 

The face in front of his doesn’t blink. Doesn’t budge. Just smiles.

“Where’d you get that fake?” Michael asks quietly.

The kid’s expression suddenly look just a little more bored than they had been hardly a moment before. “Made it.”

“Sell them?”

The kid eyes him. “Maybe.”

“Maybe yes?” Michael asks.

The kid glances at the two waiting, his friends still ready to anything, too stupid to see the moment’s passed. And it has, hasn’t it? How the hell did that happen? 

“Maybe yes.”

“Then maybe we’ll see you.” Michael turns around, walking away from the station. 

The others follow, saying something to him he doesn’t hear. He doesn’t look back. 

They shove the bag into the back with the girls who make a few disappointed sounds when they find what’s inside. Michael climbs into the drivers seat of the Audi. Amanda’s hand slides onto his thigh. He looks across the street. The truck’s gone already.


	2. Chapter 2

The day just after a big win is always off, like watching the world lose colors bit by bit. The win is huge. Lights his blood right up. For a moment. But then it’s back to class. Routine. Rituals. And what was the point in the end really? Normally he could find that point, look at the normalcy and smile back and convince himself easily enough that it’s just as it should be. But after a game it’s harder. Almost like the whole world’s dragging it’s feet. Not that it matters. The feeling will go away soon enough. Just like it always does. Or at least he’ll forget there’s any other way to feel. 

The night actually turned out better than he expected. Amanda’s parents were at her mom’s folks so they’d spent the night there, neither one of them drunk enough to pass on two solid fucks before collapsing around three AM. His hangover was just about gone by nine. The grins and occasional applause in the hall made whatever post-game depression he's been carrying around a little easier to bear. By the time lunch rolls around he's starved.

“Good night, huh?” Ramirez grins, sliding down next to him with Blake and Christie right behind. 

“Very good, I heard.” Blake winks at Michael. He really wishes Amanda didn’t have to give her the damn ESPN blow-by-blow every time they did jack-shit.

The rest of the gang is close behind, drifting in around the table. Amanda drops down next to him with a bounce, wrapping a hand around his thigh.

“I still say that piece of shit was asking for it,” Coopers mutters.

“What piece of shit?” Blake asks.

“This dude we got the beers from,” Ramirez answers.

“Wasn’t worth it,” Michael says. “We wanted to booze, didn’t we?”

“Could have kicked his ass _after_ he got it for us.”

“What dude?” Jackson asks.

“Some smart-ass with a fake ID and an attitude too big for his own good,” Coopers says.

“Someone from here?” Blake asks.

“Yeah, I guess,” Michael answers.

Amanda looks skeptical. “Someone who goes here gave _you_ a hard time?”

“Who?” Christie asks.

“Don’t know his name,” Michael shrugs. “Hardly ever see him.”

“He’s in my bio class,” Ramirez notes taking a swig off his vitamin water. “Tucker or something, Tucker Phillips?”

Jackson goes still suddenly. “ _Trevor_ Phillips?”

“Yeah, yeah man that sounds right.”

Michael watches Jackson pale. “What is it man?”

“Dude,” Jackson says firmly. “Do not, _do not_ fuck with that kid.”

“What’s the problem?” Coopers asks.

“He’s the problem! Trust me on this. He’s a legitimate psycho. How have you guys not heard of this?”

“Shit, I think I have,” Christie says suddenly. “That’s not the kid… Is he the one who put Mr. Sheets head through a window last month?”

“No!” Amanda suddenly gasps.

“Mr. Sheets took maternity leave,” Ramirez rolls his eyes.

“No, man no,” Jackson insists, “that’s what they told everyone, but there’s people who saw. It was that nut-case.”

Amanda’s hand tightens on Michael’s leg under the table.

“If that’s true, how the hell would he still be enrolled?” Michael asks.

“Sheets wouldn’t say anything against him. The dude scared the shit out of him, threatened him. He said he tripped and put his head through the damn window himself.”

“Bullshit,” Michael scoffs.

“Nah man, people saw. It’s true. He deals all kinds of shit at that trailer park out on Cove Road, and there’s more man, there’s all kinds of stories.”

“This isn’t the same crazy guy who they say broke Chris Adam’s hand, is it?” Christie asks. 

“Yes! Man, that’s what I’m saying. He’s out of his mind! Apparently he’s only on campus still because his math scores on standardized testing qualifies the school for some kind of special funding.”

Michael can’t help smiling. “Yeah. He’s Good-Will-Fucking-Hunting. Nice story Jackson.”

“Seriously. You’re lucky you got out of there with your faces attached.”

“That’s a load of shit,” Coopers snorts. “He’s just a punk man, smart-ass little punk, all attitude and nothing underneath.”

“Jesus though,” Amanda says, eyes wide, hand still firm on Michael’s leg. “He sounds sketchy. You should be more careful.”

“It’s nothing,” Michael says, but even sitting there he see still the flicker of fire behind the kid’s eyes, shadows hard on his sharp face against the lights on the parking lot. Daring. Almost hoping. _”Yeah. Kick his ass, Mike.”_

“Doesn’t sound like nothing,” Amanda mutters turning back to her salad. 

“Forget him,” Ramirez says. “Didn’t know he existed yesterday. Did just fine. Anyways, better things to think about.”

“Championships,” Coopers grins.

Jackson can’t seem to help joining in. “Five games. Just five more games and it’s ours. Mike, you keep throwing like that and nothing will stop us.”

The tension uncurls, fading from around them. This was what they lived after all: high school fucking royalty with Championships to win and trophies to bring home. Even now half the cafeteria was watching them, gazes eager to catch some of the glimmer falling off their shoulders.

“We shouldn’t have missed it last year,” Michael notes.

“Then we won’t this year,” Blake grins. “We better not - we’ve been practicing new cheers for four weeks just for the final game.”

The conversation shifts, easing naturally into cheers and practice schedules and the usual useless debate over wether football or cheering was more of a pain in the ass. Michael’s already started to tune it out. He barely catches Connie saying something about how having to smile for that long should be illegal. He doesn’t really hear her properly. Any of them really. They feel further away than they should. Post-game grey, he tells himself. It’s just making the world seem grayer than it is. Parts of it at least. The voices, the faces. He let’s last night play again in his mind. The game. The feeling. The fucking high. That moment in the gas station. It feels almost as vivid as the game, close and bright. Dangerous. He’d known there was something off there. That must be why it’s still hanging around him. Anything that gets his blood pumping, sticking like dough to the inside of his brain. Sharp dark eyes. A reflection; a reflection that feels explosive. Alive. 

Amanda kisses him as she heads to fifth period. They’d argued about how close to align their schedules this year. But in the end it had all fallen into place. Amanda had AP French, and Michael absolutely did not. Gaps separated them during the day, which really was for the best. Michael watches her go before turning to cut across the courtyard for American History. 

It’s not so bad, is it? All he’s got to do is focus for the few periods left in the day. Then it’s practice. Practice always clears his brain right out. Then sleep, and the grey will be be a day behind him. 

He drops into his usual seat in class, second row, close to the door. His brain tries to remember for a minute where they left off before giving up with a sigh. Weird day. Just get through it, Townley. Catch up later. Anyways, Miss Jones has already started.

“Eve Oscars?”

“Here.”

“Markus Park?”

“Yup.”

“Trevor Phillips.”

“Present.”

The voice tugs Michael’s head around instantly. He’s there. Back row. By the window. He meets Michael’s eye like he was waiting for it. He winks. Michael turns back to the front.

Fuck. 

But it’s not that crazy is it? He remembered him from some class last night, he just didn’t remember which.

“Joining us today, Mr. Phillips?” Miss Jones intones. “We haven’t seen much of you.”

“Mmm,” Trevor agrees. “Had a lupus scare. Turns out it was just some of that _especially_ virile rug burn. Never can be too careful though, can you Miss?” 

There’s something extraordinary about his voice, clever and grating, he heard that last night, but there’s something almost theatrical about it. Holding certain syllables, the tone wafting up and down. Almost like he’s both desperate for people to hear what he was saying and couldn’t give less of a shit all at the same time.

Miss Jones doesn’t look impressed. “No, can’t be too careful. All cleared up now?”

“Ready to roll!”

Miss Jones raises an eyebrow as she turns back to her list. “Wonderful. Felicity Reade?”

“Here.”

“Joseph Stevens?”

“Here.”

“Michael Townley?”

Michael clears his throat. “Yeah.”

She meets his eye with a smile. “Good game last night, Michael.”

A few others give whoops of support, there’s a smattering of applause. Michael makes himself smile. Someone claps significantly slower and significantly longer than anyone else. Michael doesn’t have to turn around to guess who.

Miss Jones dives right in, slapping them into something about american aesthetic transitions from rationalist to expressionist or some sort of bullshit. Michael tries to focus on the lesson but his head’s all over the place. He keeps wanting to turn around and get a better look at Mr. Phillips in the back row, see if he can imagine him smashing a Mr.Sheet’s head through a window or crushing Chris Adam’s fingers in a car door.

A few times Miss Jones calls on “Mr. Phillips”, as if she suspects he’s not paying attention. He always is. His answers are winding and indulgent, but accurate all the same. Michael finds himself focusing on the patterns of his voice without actually listening. It’s got a sort of harmony to it that can stand without any help from the meaning of the words. Interesting. Sort of— 

“What do you think about that, Michael?” 

He snaps back. “What?”

“Mister Phillips here has asserted that any one naming their work ‘Pure Reason’ is… how did you phrase it again?”

Trevor’s voice sounds crisp and clear. “Pure Jackass.”

Michael stares. He’s only realizing now the rest of the class has fallen into uncomfortable silence. 

“So, what do you think?” Miss Jones presses calmly. Apparently Miss Jones is one of those teachers who things engagement, no matter what form it comes in, is good enough.

“Uh, well I don’t think I’d put it just like that, Miss.”

The class’ silence turns to a few titters of supportive laughter.

“How would you put it then?”

“I don’t know, I mean, yeah I guess it’s a bit… That’s what philosophy's about though, isn’t it? I mean wether it’s true or not, they have to make a decent sales pitch. Move those books off the shelves.”

Trevor lets out one loud bark of laughter behind him. Michael thinks half the room jumps at the noise. 

“Wonderful,” Miss Jones says, “then we’ve transitioned from a philosophical discussion to one of production. You’ve set us up very well for the mechanization chapters I’m about to assign for homework, Michael. Thank you.”

There’s a general grumbling of displeasure from the class. 

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” Michael smiles back at her stiffly.

The class breaks up as soon as the bell rings. Michael finds himself gathering his shit slower than normal, but it doesn’t seem to make a difference. Trevor Phillips walks right past him out the door. Not so much as a glance, hands in his pockets and face forward. He isn’t carrying any books. Not even a bag.

Michael shoves his own stuff into his pack and slings it over his shoulder, adjusting his letterman jacket as he walks out the door. He heads towards the stairs. Suddenly someone’s swinging around the doorframe. They’re blocking the way.

“Ah, look who it is, huh? Player of the Year.”

Michael stops short. He takes a step back out of the kid’s space, but he gets a waft of the smell of him again all the same. Less booze now. But not none. God, he thinks it might actually be Schnapps. 

“Gonna give me that change back?” Michael asks. 

He grins back nastily. “You gonna make me?”

Michael feels a smile creep onto his own lips. “I think you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Damn right,” he returns simply. “Not that there’s much more damage to be done? How’s that brain, huh?” He flicks a finger against Michaels’ forehead and a spark of rage flares behind Michael’s chest. “Gone all mushy yet? Hear that football turns big damn sports boys like you into big damn vegetables suckin’ down our medicaid tax dollars. But you don’t seem totally idiotic yet, huh? Still there?” He goes to flick him again. 

Michael catches his wrist. Hard. Trevor’s smile widens.

Michael drops it, trying to swallow the flash of anger. “I’m not going to ‘kick your ass’ alright, so stop poking at me.”

“Hurmm, maybe I should find one of the other jock-straps? They seemed a little more touchy.”

“You’re not wrong.”

Trevor eyes him. “Friends of yours?”

“Teammates.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“You seriously don’t know this?” Michael asks raising an eyebrow. “We’re sort of, you know, _the_ people round here.”

“What people?” Trevor gives him a serious look. “Not the… lizard people?”

Michael actually laughs. He can’t help it. Trevor watches him laugh. He watches close, like there’s something weirdly fascinating about his face moving like that.

“Your a weird fucker, you know that?” Michael says.

“I’m a realist,” Trevor pushes back. “Maybe _I’m_ the only one who isn’t ‘a weird fucker’.”

“No. You’re definitely the fucked one..”

Trevor shrugs. “Yeah well, fair enough.”

A group of kids hurries down the stairs. One of them knocks against Trevor’s shoulder. Something flares behind his eyes without warning he’s got the kid by the shoulder. The kid slams him hard against the bricks of the wall. Trevor’s tight against him, hissing through his teeth. “Well, excuse the fuck out of you.”

The color drains from the kid’s face instantly at the sight of him. “Jesus, I’m sorry man, I didn’t—“

“Dude,” Michael stares in shock, “chill.”

But Trevor’s face is already loosening. Hands pulling back and to the air at his sides in an innocent dramatic gesture. “Hey, just got in my way - no harm done. Huh, kid?”

The kid slowly peels off the wall, eyeing Trevor warily all the while. “Yeah… yeah it’s cool.”

“Right.” Trevor locks his stare. “So. Fuck off.”

The kid bolts down the stairs.

“Jesus, man,” Michael stares. “What the—“

“You want that ID?” Trevor asks suddenly, spinning back into Michael’s space with a waft of that leathery smell.

Michael frowns, focusing on him. “So what if I do?”

“So what, so what,” Trevor mocks in a low voice. “So fucking nothing, suck cock down at the Cumberland Farms for your Bud Lights for all I give a fuck.”

“Alright, alright,” Michael squares his shoulders. “Yeah, okay? I want the damn ID.”

Trevor gazes back at him, errant sparks still flitting behind his eyes, lips half smile and half snarl. “What about your fuck-boys there?”

Michael shrugs. “Shit. Probably.” He realizes he didn’t correct that categorization. But god he really can’t. He’s pretty much aligned himself with the entire Fuck Boy glossary by now.

Trevor narrows his eyes. “You first. Them later.”

“Works for me. How’s it work?”

“You come with me.”

Michael’s gut twists just enough to notice. “That’s uh, necessary?”

Trevor’s lips pull back from his teeth again. His voice is one jagged tease. “Scu-scu-scared? Do you all have to hold each other’s balls for support?”

“Fuck you.”

It snaps out faster and harder than he meant. Trevor freezes, those sparks behind his eyes flying suddenly blazing.

“Fine,” Michael spits. “Just me. When?”

Trevor shrugs. “Now.”

“You’re kidding right? There’s still a period left, and then I’ve got practice.”

“Skip it,” Trevor shrugs.

Michael frowns. “I can’t.”

“Can’t. Won’t. Fuck if I care.”

“Seriously man, we’re close now. There are only a few games left to State Champs. I’m the captain I can’t miss it.”

“Well, _Captain_ ,” Trevor murmurs, leaning closer, “that’s your loss. Isn’t it?” He turns away, heading for the stairs without a second look.

Something in Michael’s chest jumps. “Hey! Wait—“

Trevor turns, eyebrows lifted. Waiting.

Michael’s already cursing himself. “How long?”

Trevor shrugs. “Hour? Two?”

Michael hesitates. But why? If he skips his last class he can still make it back in time for practice. And who’s going to give him shit for being absent after last night anyways. Plus… this has definitely been the most interesting part of his day. 

He thinks of Amanda’s hand on his thigh, the fear on her face. _”You should be more careful.”_

Michael meets Trevor’s eye. “Let’s go.”

 

He takes his own car, following the dusty trail the red truck kicks up on the backroad. Everything’s fucking dust this year. He can’t remember the last time it rained. Months ago at least. But hey, the fields and the campus were still green. Unnatural, but they couldn’t let go of that, could they? They all seemed to think if you stop watering lawns all hell would break loose, the chaos of turf free landscaping rising up to eat them alive.

Michael just manages to keep up. Trevor seems to have a habit of taking corners like they’ve personally fucked him, and if there are two sides to this road he doesn’t give any indication of respecting that fact. After the first mile Michael feels his own foot turning to lead on the pedals, snapping the clutch like he never gets a proper chance to.

By the time they both skid to a dusty stop in front of a broken down trailer Michael’s heart is thudding behind his ribs, an exhilarated smile flush across his cheeks. 

Trevor slams the door to the truck, giving Michael and the Audi and good once over with a crooked smirk through the dust. “Got that pretty little toy all messy, Mikey.”

“Fuck off.” He’s still grinning. He can never help it when his heart beats like this.

“You know,” Trevor says, stepping closer. “People have learned to show me, a _little_ more respect. Maybe you should follow their example.”

Michael still can’t get the damn smug smile off his face, echoing Trevor’s words right back at him. “You gonna make me?”

Trevor can’t seem to help grinning back, returning the favor. “I think you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“You know,” Michael admits, “maybe I would,” 

“Yeah well,” Trevor turns, moving for the trailer, “I can see how hitting people through three layers of damn plastic and nylon could get old fast. Takes all the fun out of it. How do you know your alive if you don’t feel blood burst under your fingers, huh?”

“Jesus man. Great conversation seriously… not at all creepy. You make it real easy to be friendly.”

“Why the hell would I want to make it easy to be friendly?” 

Michael doesn’t have an answer. He takes a minute to properly look around instead. 

It’s not as crowded as he thought it would be. There’s only a handful of other trailers on the rocky lot and they’re further off, closer together, as if that’s the actual community and this one’s just some an unfortunate side-effect. Rejected young. 

There isn’t much in the way of landscaping on this side of town, mostly just rocks and a few scrubby shrubs trying to make the most of it. But the air doesn’t feel as dry as it might, and Michael finds himself wondering how close they are to the beach. The air has that salty half rotten smell you only get around the ocean or sewage treatment plants, and well, the later’s probably more likely, isn’t it? 

The ground around the trailer is littered with broken glass and stray aluminum cans. Random other garbage decorates it as well: road signs, a torn open teddy bear, a pair of ripped jeans, old TV set with a golf-club through it, broken toilet, and weirdly enough a few popped off barbie heads sticking out of the dirt in more than one place.

Jesus. If his mom could see him here. The thought makes him smile a little wider.

Trevor’s makes his way up the broken steps to the front door. He grabs the handle and pulls it open hard. 

“You, uh, don’t lock your place?” Michael asks, following him up. 

“I live in constant fear of home intrusion,” Trevor returns sarcastically.

Michael imagines the kind of day any intruder would be walking into if they chose to rip off this kid. There’s probably a circle of hell designed around that concept.

Trevor slams the screen door back and open behind him, making a wide dramatic gesture. “Welcome, Mister Captain.”

Michael hesitates. Is he actually doing this? What the hell is wrong with him? This entire scene feels like the first three minutes to every crime drama that’s ever aired on late night TV. He’ll probably end up gutted in a ditch. Amanda will be on the news. His parents will have to come in to ID the body. They see so little of him these days they probably wouldn’t even be able to make the call. And god wouldn’t that be fucking perfect. Michael smiles and heads inside. 

It’s dark. Sunlight filters through dirty windows and a dusty interior, specs catching in the beams of light that slice through a set of broken blinds. It looks pretty much like the outside: beer bottles and cans, general garbage. There’s an old couch with the shittiest upholstery he’s ever seen in one corner, a dim TV in another, crumpled wrappers from hot pockets and pop-tart and ready-meals littering the floor. There’s only two doors in the place. He’s guessing bedroom and bathroom.

“You live here alone?” Michael asks.

Trevor snorts, letting the screen door slam behind them. “Regular P.I. right here.”

“Isn’t that… aren’t there laws about kids living alone or—?”

“If said child is of or over sixteen years of age they may choose to reside in their own residence, with permission from the court and/or their legal guardians,” Trevor recites in that sing-song voice, like it’s a lullaby or some legal nursery rhyme. “And since I’m big ol’ eighteen that’s hardly worth remembering.”

“You lived alone when you were sixteen?”

Trevor makes a short grunt of agreement.

“You had court permission?”

Trevor pulls open the fridge and gives Michael a look. Michael drops it. 

“Alright, so how much will this cost?” Michael asks.

Mmm,” Trevor emerges from the fridge, already sucking on the neck of a beer. “How much will what cost?”

Michael raises an eyebrow. “The fake ID.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah, I don’t do that here.”

Anger floods Michael’s chest. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Language, lanuage,” Trevor tuts. “What did I say about respect, huh? In my own fucking home to boot, christ.”

“What the fuck am I doing here if you don’t ‘do that here’?” Michael tries not to yell.

Trevor shrugs, smile oozing across his face. “I was curious if you’d actually have the balls to follow me out here. And look-y here. There they are. A-fucking-plus.”

“Fuck this,” Michael swears, turning for the door and tugging it open.

It slams shut in his face. 

Trevor’s hand is pressed against it firmly. He’s much closer now. Michael doesn’t step back. He glares back at him, heart thudding in his chest.

For a moment things are very still. 

Trevor’s face breaks into a grin. “Pull that jock-strap out of your ass, Champ. I don’t _make_ them here, got it. I got a guy. I take the photos and _then_ send him the info. He’ll set you up just fine. You get get all the Jaeger-bombs your pretty little Americana physique needs.”

Michael can still feel the fury coiled in his gut, but he tries to ease it away. “You take the photo? How long does it take after that?”

“Depends on how cheery I sound when I give him a call. Couple days. Maybe less.”

Michael steps back from the door. “Fine.”

Trevor gives him a slow once over. “Bit of a temper snuggled away in there, huh sport?”

Michael ignores him. “Let’s just do this, alright?”

Something flickers in Trevor’s eyes. “Tone. Watch it.”

Michael says nothing but he takes a few steps back into the main space of the trailer as Trevor vanishes into the back. 

He reemerges with a rolled up sheet of government-blue paper and some junky old digital camera. Michael groans. This is definitely turning into one of weirder days of his life.

Trevor hums while he uses something that looks a lot like gum to tack the paper up on an empty space of wall. Michael’s gazing out the window when he feels a hand wrap around his arm and pull him. It’s not rough, and let’s go right away, as soon as he’s positioned in front of the backdrop.

“So what? Just stand here?” Michael asks.

“Clever kid.” Trevor takes a few steps back, widening his stance and positioning the camera. “Take the jacket off.”

“What? Shit, right.” Varsity jacket. Not exactly over twenty-one apparel.

He shrugs it off, chucking it on the rotting sofa, leaving just his grey tee and jeans. He straightens his shoulders staring back at the camera. “Good?”

Trevor just makes a grumbling sounds that might pass as approving. He stares through the camera for a long moment.

“Should I, uh, smile?” Michael tries awkwardly.

“Why the fuck not, huh?”

Michael pulls his lips into the right shape. It’s not hard. He’s had a lot of practice. Trevor snorts half a laugh. The camera flashes impossibly bright in the dusty dim space.

“Shit—“ Michael blinks hard.

“There. You’re a fucking star,” Trevor says. “I’ll send it along it’s merry way. Give it a few days.”

Michael reaches into the pocket of his jeans. “How much?”

“Guess what? You can pay on delivery, how does that sound?”

Michael fumbles the money clip. “Seriously?”

Trevor’s eyes snap to his. “You going to fuck with me?”

Michael laughs. “Uh, no. I don’t think so man.”

“Five hundred. When I hand it to you. Yes?”

Michael shrugs. “Sure.”

Trevor holds out his hand. Michael stares at it for a moment then takes it, shaking it once. Trevor doesn’t let go of it for just a moment too long before dropping it. He turns to the fridge. “Fan-fucking-tastic! Want a beer?”

“No man, thanks, but I should get back.”

Trevor spins. “You come to my house, do business, and won’t take a beer?” The spark is back in his eyes.

“Hey, sorry, I’ve got practice,” Michael says.

“Ah, right. Sports. Good ol’ sports. Jesus. What so proudly we hail, huh?”

Michael smiles, grabbing the screen door. It doesn’t slam shut in his face this time, though he half expects it to. 

He turns back. “Another time, huh?”

Where the fuck did that come from?

Trevor meets his gaze firmly. “Hold you to it.”

“See-ya,” Michael lets the door swing shut behind him. 

He manages to remember the right turns in the road to get back to school without trouble. He’s running late, but it’s not too bad. It won’t take much to come up with a good excuse. If he even needs one.

He blinks up at the sun overhead, brilliant white against a cloudless blue perfection. The post-game grey is gone, isn’t it? He doesn’t think about that too hard. Why ruin it? He grabs his shit and jogs towards the waiting field. 

Interesting damn day.


	3. Chapter 3

“Still no rain for San Tulo county, Dave, and let me tell you something, today is going to be a flat out scorcher. Woo! Should be a littler cooler for this weekend, but in the meantime we just have to power through it. At least it’s dry heat, huh? Never could stand humidity, liking living in a dryer half way through it’s cycle. Anyways! Looking at sports, our Sharks _obliterated_ the Palos Warriors this weekend. Great performances from the whole team, running back Jackson bringing in sixteen points, while Jose Ramirez continued to lead an untouchable defense with Coopers. But Dave, as always, the game really does come down to the performance of hometown boy Michael Townley who seems dead-set on leading this team to a Championshi— “

Michael switches off the engine and the radio snaps into silence. He pushes his cloudy tan RayBans up into his hair as he gets out of the Audi, doors locking with a neat click behind him.

School’s already buzzing as everyone heads to first period, skittering and scattering across the brick walkways and brilliant green grounds. Blake and Amanda catch up to him as he makes it to the palm-lined courtyard. 

“There he is,” Blake shouts. Michael smiles, giving her a short salute.

They hurry to his side, Amanda snatches his hand, skin warm and soft. “Did you see it Michael?”

“See what?”

“Oh boy, this way,” Blake grins, rushing towards the stairs.

“I have class in five minutes,” Michael tries.

“It’s worth it,” Amanda beams, “trust me!”

They get to the top of the cement stairs and turn on the open walkway and overlooks the central courtyard of campus. Strung between the two tallest buildings is a massive banner. His own face is slapped across it, smiling down on the school like some glorious dictator. Ramirez is there too, and Jackson, and Coopers, even Blake and Amanda, Christie and Sun beaming in their uniforms on the other side. Big type spreads across the length of the thing. “Knock ‘Em Dead Sharks!”

“Holy fuck,” Michael stares.

“Right! It’s amazing,” Amanda exclaims.

“We’re like movie stars,” Blake grins, inching her sunglasses down her nose for emphasis.

Michael can feel himself smiling. “This is nuts.”

“Those recruiters won’t have much choice but to see you now, huh?” Amanda presses against his side.

“Yeah, guess not.”

Down below a bell starts to ring.

“Shit,” Blake swears scurrying down the stairs again. “I have Mrs. Connors, she fucking hates me already.”

Michael moves to follow. Amanda holds him back. She gives his hand a short tug and pulls him close, pressing her mouth against his. It’s a good kiss. Deep and fresh. She lets him go, eyes filled with mischief. “See you.”

Michael grins back. “Yeah. See you.”

They actually cheer when he runs into trig even though he’s late. It takes Mr. Roberts five minutes to shut them up again before starting class, and when he finishes that and pushes the door open to the next period the applause hits him even louder. He tries to wave it off even though he’s beaming, sliding into his seat in the second row. 

“Alright, alright,” Miss Jones calls, “let’s focus please. I’m sure Michael’s ego has had enough fuel for one day.”

Michael can’t help glancing over his shoulder. Trevor’s sitting where he has been for the past week. He meets his eye as if he was waiting for it, arms crossed, his legs spread wide and errant under the desk. He has a mildly bemused expression on his face, like someone watching toddlers try to play sports with grown-up sized equipment. Michael smiles at him once and turns back to the front.

“Now, we left off with transcendentalism, Michael, care to top your day off by reminding me what the basis for that movement was?”

“Uh,” Michael focuses, “isn’t it pretty much: why sit in church when the sun is shining outside?”

Miss Jones smiles. “I’ll take it.”

“Doesn’t that apply class too?” Michael can’t help grinning.

“Nice try.”

When the lunch bell rings Michael shoves his books into his pack, nodding at the hands that slap his shoulders in support as they pass. One hand lands harder than the rest.

“Got a minute in your busy schedule for a mere plebeian, oh Fearless Leader?” a voice hisses against his ear.

Michael turns, the hand slides off his shoulder. Trevor raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, sure man,” he answers. “What’s up?”

Trevor nods his head in the direction of the door. Michael follows him out, Trevor turns around a line of lockers, slinking into the quiet space between. Someone yells Michael’s name with a hoot as he passes, he waves in their general direction.

“Jesus christ,” Trevor swears as Michael steps into the space with him, “you keep this shit up their going to cast your ass in fucking marble.”

“That banner’s a bit much,” Michael admits.

“Bullshit.” Trevor narrows his eyes. “You’re fucking glowing. Look at you. You love this shit. Every little dumb-ass licking your Abercrombie flip-flops. Fuck me.”

“Is that all?” Michael asks.

“Why?” Trevor takes a step closer, eyes darkening. In the tight space Michael’s back is already against the cool of the lockers. “Am I boring you?”

Michael smiles back, eyes steady. “You’re a creepy fucker man but you sure as shit aren’t boring.”

That seems to go over well. Trevor pulls back again, slapping a hand on his shoulder. “Your fake’s ready. You can come pick it up. Tonight. At my place.”

Michael frowns. “You couldn’t just bring it here, where, I don’t know, we see each other every fucking day?”

“Could have. Didn’t. Come get it if you fucking want it.” He turns back to the hallway suddenly. A kid practically jumps out of his skin to get out of his way. Trevor barks at the kid’s heels sending him running down the hall.

“Better hurry to that cafeteria, Mikey,” Trevor calls to him without turning. “Your fucking oligarchy is gathering.”

 

“I can’t hang out tonight,” Michael says, lifting his burger off the tray.

“What?” Amanda says. 

“We were going to go to that new Vin Diesel thing,” Coopers adds. 

“You can. I can’t.”

“But why?” Amanda presses. “We’ve been planning on it since last week!”

“Trust me, what I have going on will make it worth it.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Jackson asks.

Michael swallows his mouthful. He’ll have to spill sooner or later. “I’m going to pick up a fake ID.”

“What?” Amanda stares.

“You fucking kidding?” Ramirez echoes.

“No, I’m not kidding. I thought we could all use it so I took the initiative, alright?”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with that punk-ass does it?” Coopers asks.

“If you mean did he hook me up? Then yeah, he did.”

“Jesus Michael!” Amanda just about yells.

“Shit, calm down alright, it’s cool.”

“Bullshit ‘it’s cool’,” Jackson says firmly. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I was thinking if we keep winning we deserve some serious celebrating without creeping around like fucking rats.”

“But, you could get arrested,” Christie says. “That is if this weirdo doesn’t cut your throat first.”

“I can take care of myself, alright,” Michael says, focusing on Amanda. She looks far from sure of that. 

“Hold up - what did you mean you are going to pick it up? Are you going to meet that kid? Alone?” Jackson insists.

“I said I can take care of it.”

“No way man, we’re coming,” Coopers says instantly.

Michael locks his eyes on him. “I said: I can take care of it.”

The table goes quiet. He clears his throat.

“Seriously. He’s not that bad. It won’t be a problem. My parents want to have our shitty monthly dinner together anyways so I’ll just pop by after.”

“I don’t know if it’s worth it, Michael…” Blake starts.

“It will be,” Michael smiles, pushing the tone into his voice that he knows will sell them on anything. “Next game is on Thursday, and Amanda, your parents are out of town. Right?”

“Yes?” Amanda answers hesitantly.

“So, we have a proper party. Celebrate. I’ll take care of the booze, you let us use your place. It will be perfect. Just what we need to carry us through the rest of the season.”

“I mean it sounds great, but Michael you don’t even know if you’re going to win,” Christie tries.

“We’ll win,” Amanda says firmly before Michael can even open his mouth. “As long as you assholes help me clean up this time that works for me.”

They spend the rest of the lunch period launching into plans and deciding who’s going to be responsible for the ping-pong table and wether or not the police would dare to show with them that close to the Championships. No one mentions Trevor Phillips again. Not with all the possibilities of a proper rager to consider. Michael’s almost sure they’ve forgotten about it when Amanda slips closer on their way back to class. 

“Be careful, Michael, seriously.”

He turns to face her, easing a hand around her neck. “I said it’s fine, Mand, honestly.”

She gazes back up at him. “I know you said, but you say a lot of things, Michael.”

“What’s your point?”

“Just…” She furrows her brow, taking a moment to find her words. “Just promise me you won’t get washed away, alright?”

Michael smiles. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know, just be careful. Okay? Promise?”

“Yeah, I promise.” He kisses her firmly. “Alright?”

She forces a smile. “Alright.”

He steps away, heading for class. 

“Hey—“ she calls after him.

He stops, turning back. 

“Mom and dad leave tomorrow morning,” she smiles. “Doing anything tomorrow night?”

Michael grins back. “Guess I am now, huh?”

 

Dusk is just settling over the neighborhood as Michael pulls into the driveway. His dad’s Bentley is parked in the garage neatly, right beside his mom’s beamer. Home sweet home.

He takes his time getting inside. The evening smells dry and sweet in the heat. Only a few of the identical houses on his street have switched on their lights, the rest look like geometric sleeping things, hidden in the deepening navy of night.

The lights of their house are on, peering out hollowly from the inside. He stands on the asphalt of the driveway. Standing here it could be any other house, really. Someone else’s. He wouldn’t know what was inside, the paintings and throw pillows and sick smell of lavender and wine. It could just be another house on the street, insides all comfortable mystery.

But it’s not someone else’s house, and he’s already late. 

Dinner’s scallops on a bed of risotto. He could smell the cook prepping them before he even sat down. The white dining room feels too bright for this time of day under the overheads. The table’s covered in a white linen cloth with geometric navy patterns along the sides. Chairs, tall and white with stiff backs, line the sides, ready for far more company than they ever have. There’s a seashell arrangement in the middle of the table, and the plates have little sail-boats all along the sides. Looking at the sliding glass doors past the table he can’t see the yard outside, just the mirrored blurry reflection of the table and his own obscured face staring back at him.

Across from him, his mother’s a wash of strawberry blonde and coral tones, silently and neatly slicing into a scallop with the side of her fork. Her lips are pink and shut, as usual, eyes dully focused on just what’s in front of her. She might still be gorgeous, if she didn’t look so damn miserable all the time. 

His father’s still wearing his charcoal suit jacket from the office, but he’s left his tie on the dresser upstairs. He has Michael’s square jaw and stout build, but his eyes are deeper set that Michael’s, and much more blue. 

He chews slowly, watching Michael all the while. “Aren’t you going to tell us about your game, Michael.”

Michael moves a scallop to the other side of his plate, fiddling with some risotto. “We won.”

“I heard,” his father notes.

“Then why ask me?” Michael says.

He feels his father’s jaw tighten. “Look at me when I speak to you.”

Michael looks up obediently, meeting his eyes, stare hard and mouth set. 

His father peers back calmly, still chewing. “Your hair’s getting a little long.”

It wasn’t. “I’ll cut it.”

“Good.”

His mother reaches for her chardonnay.

“Are you still seeing that girl?” His father asks. “Kendrick’s niece?”

“Amanda.”

“Right. Still?”

“Yes, still.”

His father makes a grunt. He can’t tell if it’s approving or not.

“And your applications. Are they ready to send?”

Michael feels his chest tighten. “I want to get a scholarship.”

“Yeah, no shit,” his father returns, “and I want a son who isn’t stupid enough to depend on a decent arm to solve every problem life throws at him.”

“My grades are fine.”

“Fine isn’t fine. I’ve been speaking to Johnson, he’s on the business advisory board at Dartmouth, it seems a good fit for someone like you.”

Michael tries to swallow the anger that sparks up his throat. “Someone like me? What’s that?”

His father shrugs. “Athletic. Masculine. Intelligent enough. Driven - if you ever saw the right opportunity.”

Michael tries to convince himself it isn’t the description of a racehorse. “And they’d have that ‘right’ opportunity for someone like me?”

His father holds his eye. “Do you have an alternative?”

Michael doesn’t answer.

His mother stares at her wine, swirling it between two fingers. Michael wonders what she’s thinking, if there’s anything left to think about at all this after all these years.

“Good day, mom?” He hears himself ask.

She looks up, expression hazy. Which prescription this time, he wonders. “Very nice dear, thank you for asking.”

His father doesn’t even seem to hear her answer. “Dartmouth early decision closes on December 10th. I’m sure your application will be in by then.”

His mother’s eyes are still on Michael’s but they’re already floating away, vague attention swirling down eddies and streams. 

He makes himself take another bite. “How long are you home, dad?”

His father grumbles. “Until those lawyers pulls their thumbs out of their asses. A week. Maybe more. You’d think they didn’t need to get any richer the way their pushing this down the line.”

“How about you mom? How was your retreat?”

She sighs. “Very refreshing.”

“Anything else planned?”

She shakes her head with a small smile. “Not presently Michael, thank you.”

His father frowns. “Trying to get rid of us, Michael? Throw one of your parties here?”

“No, sir.” He meets his gaze. “There’s another game soon. I was wondering if you’d be there.”

“We’d love to, Michael,” his mother says musically, “but those bleachers, my back was sore for three weeks last time. Doctor Kipler says I really shouldn’t risk it again.”

For a moment Michael thinks he sees something sink behind his father’s eyes but it’s gone as soon as it was there.

“We’ll see what we can do,” his father answers.

Michael can’t help it. “Maybe Johnson wants to come. See how good of a fit I am himself.”

His father smiles, stiff and small. That might be the only way he knows to smile anymore. Sometimes Michael worries that on day, soon enough maybe, it will be the only way he knows how to smile too.

“Maybe he would,” his father answers.

 

Once the table’s cleared they separate and the house falls into it’s usual lull. Three people. Three lives. All of which just happen to take place in the same four walls under the same roof. His father’s sealed himself in his office, voice firm on the telephone, large plasma screen visible through the first floor outside windows. He can see his mother’s silhouette on the floors above, in her bedroom of seashell throw pillows and lavender eye-masks. He can hear the bathtub running, soft music floating down to drift along the perfectly maintained asphalt of their road. 

Michael stands outside the house, listening for a moment. The air’s dry enough that the smell of every flower in the paradoxically verdant lawn carries fast and firm on the air. It’s almost overwhelming without any humidity to slow it down and mix it up.

They didn’t hear him leave. They never ask where he’s been. They might not even notice the nights he doesn’t spend at home. He’s sure they won’t notice his car drifting out of the driveway and off down the still road. 

They don’t notice. Or they just don’t care. It’s the same thing in the end, isn’t it?

Michael finds himself driving faster than he means to tonight, headlights drooling white pools in the thick navy dusk. The streetlights fall behind him once he gets far enough out. The road is dead on this side of town, not another car in sight, but a full moon is high and getting higher, bloated and burning bright. Michael gazes up at it and can’t help but feel it’s brilliance ease under his skin. He pauses, and then with a small smile he switches off his headlights. It’s perfect easy to see all the same. The road nothing but shades of blue, sharp in contrast with each-other’s shadows. He feels the thrill of it sneak up his limbs, coiling around something deeper in his chest. He puts his foot down on the gas.

He doesn’t pass another car the whole way, so the headlights are still off as the car crunches too a stop in front of the lop-sided trailer. It took him a few wrong turns to find the place again, but he did it. He’d only realized on the second misstep that he didn’t have any number to call if he got lost after all, since the GPS was shit this far out. He’d have to fix that. 

He steps out of the car, shutting the door gently behind him. It’s hot still, hot enough that he thinks he probably should have brought some water. It’s that type of dry heat that doesn’t stick or sweat, just surrounds on each and every possible side and never lets you forget it. 

He turns towards the trailer. The moon seems even brighter here, transforming the geometry of the place into hard corners and firm lines. The cacti sit still, crooked but alive against the dust and rocks. Reflections off of broken glass and stray cans pick up sharp in the silver light. Weirdly enough it smells better here than on his street, or at least more natural. There’s just dust, and earth, and that same edge of saltiness he caught last-time. 

There’s sound here, in places: drifting conversations from the distant trailers, and something that sounds like music from the one in front of him. 

There’s a light on, one by the look of it, illuminating the windows into a yellow that seems far deeper in contrast to the moonlight outside.

Michael steps up the broken three or so stairs carefully. He can hear the music clearer from here. _”—when I start to make you nervous, and I’m going to extremes, tomorrow I will change, and today won’t mean a thing—”_

He pauses, staring at the door’s twisted metal handle. What the hell is he doing here? 

Amanda’s worries face stares back up at him, and then floods with a smile. He could probably be over there right now, even though her parents weren’t gone until tomorrow. He could be pushing her back onto that quilt of hers, under the poster of horses she still has on her wall, easing a hand up her stomach and under her shirt, while her gorgeous mouth falls open on some lost word.

The image slips away as quickly as it came. His father stares back at him behind his mind. _”Seems a good fit for someone like you.”_ Someone like him. 

Michael knocks his knuckles hard against the side of the trailer.

There’s a sound of something falling inside, followed by a crash and a handful of swears. Michael takes a step back just as the door rips open. 

Michael’s not exactly sure what his body does first. His stomach definitely drops. His expression is definitely staring. Somewhere in there his brain _definitely_ tells him he’s a giant fucking idiot and he needs to turn around and get back in his car, right, _now_.

Trevor grins back at him, leaning on the door-frame. “Hey there, Champ.”

He’s wearing what Michael’s 90% sure he’s heard Amanda call a sundress. It’s a pretty horrible pale green, spaghetti straps and lace around where the designer definitely intended boobs to go. Short too, with a fitted waist and pink and yellow flowers speckling the fabric that make the whole color balance of the thing feel twisted and at disharmony with itself. 

“Uh,” Michael manages. And he’s blushing. Actually fucking blushing. But who the fuck wouldn’t be? “I can… come back.”

“Why?” Trevor glares back at him.

The music’s more audible now with the door open. _”I’m your Hell, I’m your dream, I’m nothing in-between- you know you wouldn’t want it any other way—”_

“This isn’t, uh,” god, know the fuck is he going to manage this, “… a bad time?”

“Fucking perfect time,” Trevor answers lop-sided grin splitting across his face. “Get in here. Hot as bear-fuck in July out, huh?”

Michael’s feet are following him back inside before he tells them too and he’s already cursing himself for it. 

Inside the music’s actually pretty loud, partly droned out by the three fans blasting dry air around at a slightly cooler temperature. 

The scene is completely ridiculous, this lanky kid, tall enough and skinny enough that the dress actually almost fits him, bending down to pull beers out of the fridge, complete with theme music and a setting out of some Guy Ritchie movie. 

It’s so perfectly whacked Michael can’t help smiling. “I can’t believe you’re listening to Meredith Brooks, man.”

“Who?”

“Meredith Brooks, this song.”

“I don’t know who the fuck this is,” Trevor leers back, “but it’s nice to know you do.”

He knocks the caps off the two beers on the side of the counter-top with a jolt of sound and slides Michael’s beer over to him. 

“Thanks.” It’s cold, thank god, and right now pretty damn perfect. The first third goes down in one icy swallow. A refreshed noise pops out of him as soon as he lets the bottle fall back.

Michael glances down. Trevor’s leaned over the counter, gazing up at him with a fascinated expression. He rolls the bottle from side to side against the stained plastic countertop. “You know, these are on you next time.”

Michael laughs. “Yeah I guess so. Can I see it?”

“See what?” Trevor mocks roughly.

Michael rolls his eyes. “Jesus man, do you even have it?”

“‘Course,” Trevor answers, sitting up a little straighter. “What am I, big fat fucking liar?”

“Sure as shit hope not,” Michael smiles. “Too skinny anyways.” Surprisingly, Trevor smiles back.

“How’d that picture turn out,” Michael asks.

“Why? Need more propaganda mugshots?”

“You never know,” Michael shrugs. “Seriously man, let me see how it looks.”

Trevor groans, lifting off the table. “‘Let me, let me,’ jesus _christ_ , you this grabby with that slice of cheerleader?”

Michael watches him carefully. “You showing me or not?”

“You going to fuck off back to suburbia as soon as I do?” Trevor asks.

Michael narrows his eyes. “Would it matter?”

“When _I_ do business with someone,” Trevor asserts, leaning a little further over the counter towards him. There’s some cheap perfume hanging off that dress. “I’d rather not just get fucked, and get paid. Would it _kill you_ to stick around for a beer or two, jesus.”

Michael thinks of Amanda wrapped up in her comforter, shorts riding up her thighs. Ah, well…

“Wouldn’t kill me, no,” he answers, “Not unless you plan to, that is.”

“Never know,” Trevor grins. He takes another long swig of his beer. Michael follows the example. It’s cheap shit, but in this heat anything cold and alcoholic would taste like fucking nectar. 

“So! Your _Majesty_ ,” Trevor exclaims with sudden volume focusing firm on Michael’s face with a leery smirk, “want to do something _fun_?”

“Does it,” Michael stats tentatively, “involve hitting something?”

“Not tonight.”

“Slicing something?”

“Only if you’re a dumb-ass.”

“Shooting something.”

Trevor grins. “Yes.”

“Living?”

Trevor shrugs. “Not necessarily.”

The colors in the trailer seem oddly bright against the haunting silver outside. Michael finishes his first beer with one deep drag. “Fuck it. Let’s go.”

 

As it turns out it’s two or three beers before they let the screen door slam behind them. Michael’s not exactly drunk but not exactly sober either, just wafting about that nice squishy middle, where it’s easier to smile at nothing and whatever comes out of your mouth feels a heck of a lot more valuable than it might be other-wise.

“Come on, come on, right this fucking way,” Trevor says, turning to another windy dirt path to the left of the trailer.

Michael can’t help laughing. He makes an interesting picture. The kid’s still wearing that fucking sundress, only now he has a shoulder holster around his torso with pistols in both sides, and is staggering with a cardboard box packed with empty glass bottles, a few filled ones, and several moth-eaten boxes of bullets. 

“Jesus, give me that,” Michael swears, elbowing his way into Trevor’s side to take the box. Trevor holds onto it for a minute before finally giving it up. 

“Fine, fine captain-fucking-America here, be my guest.”

Michael hefts the box into his own arms. It’s lighter than it looked. “So, where’re we going anyways?”

“Beyond!” Trevor exclaims, sending an arm out towards the nothing in front of them dramatically.

“Ominous,” Michael notes.

“It’s not far,” Trevor insists, “let’s pick up the pace, huh?”

The trail starts to pull away from any notable civilization. There’s still the occasional aluminum can or cigarette butt, but that’s about it besides the shrubs and scrappy grasses. The hardened dusty dirt of the trail is starting to shift into sand as the trail turns upwards. The moonlight is even stronger out here, far enough away from the town to even see a few stars trying to compete against that giant damn moon. It’s more than bright enough to see the surroundings clearly, but nothing’s left with it’s own color under that hollow light, everything drained into greys and blues and whites.

“Annnd there we go,” Trevor says, stopping at the top of the hill with an expansive gesture. 

Michael steps up the final few feet and the ocean falls out beneath them. Massive, dark, and glimmering like the belly of a snake against the moonlight.

“Fuck me,” he murmurs.

“Right? Not bad.” Trevor’s already heading down the winding path towards the beach.

Michael stays where he is for a moment, staring down the slope towards the pacific. Not bad is certainly one way to describe. Fucking gorgeous might be another. The beach is sliced right into the side of the rocky cliffs, with what looks like nothing but this one path serving as a way down. He wonders how many other people even know this exists.

“Today, please, jackass,” Trevor calls over his shoulder, stumbling a little on the trail.

Michael gives the box and jingly heft and heads after him. “You know, most people don’t dare say that shit to my face.”

“Oooo,” Trevor shakes both his hands in mock terror. “I guess that means they’re all just saving their salt for after you fuck off, huh?”

Michael can’t help letting out a short laugh. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Well let me tell you something here Mikey, ‘most people’ wouldn’t dare follow me down to an abandoned beach with two guns and a box full of glass, so I guess we’ve got that going for us, don’t we?”

“Suppose so.” Michael just manages not to trip over an errant stone on the path, body still half a step behind him with the drunk lightly draped over his shoulders.

They stumble down onto the beach. The moon against the sand makes it feel more brilliant than it might even during the day.

“Here?” Michael asks.

“You got it.”

He drops the noisy box down onto the sand and stands up again, arching his back and taking a deep breath.

It’s still boiling out, but here, by the water, there’s a breeze that makes it feel much easier to bear. It wraps up around his arms and neck, teasing and smelling of salt. Michael sighs.

When he turns back Trevor’s watching him. He’s holding another beer. “Here,” he throws it. 

“Yeah, thanks.” The top of the bottle’s already loosened, just a bit drips down over his hand as Michael catches it. “Alright, so what are we doing?”

“Red-neck skeet,” Trevor grins, “very popular in the great northern wilderness of apologies and cheese-curds.” He snatches a glass bottle out of the box and gives it a few experimental tosses, snuggling his own beer after one more sip into the sand at his feet.

“Right and that’s…” Michael starts.

Trevor pulls one of the pistols from the holster. Michael tries not to take a step back, and god he doesn’t even have time to. Trevor chucks the bottle up into the air over the glimmering ocean, aims, and fires. The bottle explodes into a hundred pieces with a clean sprinkling sound Michael barely hears after that gunshot explodes behind his ear-drums. 

“What the fuck!” he yells, covering the closer ear even though he knows it’s too late.

“Loud, huh?” Trevor grins. 

“ _Really_ fucking loud!” Michael swears. “Jesus, a little warning next time, fuck me.”

“Calm down, calm down, christ they’re only twenty-two pistols. Stop whining. Haven’t you ever shot anything before?”

“Yeah, with my dad at the cop’s range when I was sixteen, but fuck me man there’s ear muffs and they don’t actually _want_ you to get tinnitus.” He hesitates suddenly. “Wait a second… twenty-two bullets?”

“Yup.”

Michael gazes off at the ocean. “You hit that thing with a twenty-two?”

“Seems so.”

Michael can’t help being impressed. “That’s pretty damn good man.”

“Nah,” Trevor shrugs, “well, yeah, it is, but you can’t throw ‘em too far or it’s fucking impossible.”

“Just close enough to have a chance of hitting it and far enough to not to get a broken bottle sticking out of your eye?”

“You got it,” Trevor grins. He wiggles the shoulder holster off, snatching the other pistol and handing it grip first to Michael. Michael takes it gingerly.

“What the fuck is that?” Trevor asks, eyeing him skeptically. “Do you actually know what you’re doing here? Am I going to end up with my fucking brains blow across this beach?”

“I’m fine,” Michael returns sharply, carefully evaluating the mechanism like he learned to that day in the shooting range, ensuring the safety is very firmly on. “I just… christ are you sure we should be doing this drunk?”

Trevor raises an eyebrow. “You’re drunk?”

“Well, no,” Michael admits. “Getting there, though.”

“So don’t shoot when you’re there. How fucking hard is that?” Trevor asks. “PULL!”

He chucks another bottle and aims again. The gunshot explodes, but this time the bottle just plunks into the ocean unharmed. “Shit.”

Michael just managed to cover his ear. “Someone’s going to hear this, man.”

“No one has yet,” Trevor notes. He throws another bottle. The gunshot cracks through the boiling salty air. The glass hits the belly of the ocean in a thousand pieces. “Alright, come on, give it a whirl champ. Ready?”

“Uh,” Michael tries to remember what the cops at the range had told him, his dad watching with careful evaluation all the while. Two hands, legs apart, shoulders square. Never _never_ point at anyone else. Yeah no shit. He flicks the safety off. “Yeah, sure, go.”

Trevor chucks the bottle. Michael closes one eye, following it as well as he can. Squeeze, don’t pull. Breath in. 

The gun fires. It’s even louder in his own hands.

The bottle plops, into ocean. Perfectly whole.

Michael sighs, flicking the safety back on. “Shit.”

“Beginner’s fucking luck, huh? Here, try again.”

He tries five more times without hitting shit. The bottles plunk into the ocean, and the ocean pushes a breeze back at them. He tries three more times and misses every single one, but he’s laughing now. He can’t actually remember the last time he had this much fun failing at anything.

“You said they do this in the north? What do you mean? Canada?”

“That’s right,” Trevor says, taking another swig. He hasn’t shot for a little while. The holster’s back on and the pistol’s neatly tucked into it under his bare arms. “Good times those Canadians. Let winter fuck you up the ass enough times and you turn into a shit-ton of fun.”

“You lived there?”

“Lived just about everywhere,” Trevor answers. “But yeah, for a little while.”

“How long’s a little?”

Trevor shrugs. “Eight years.”

“And this is what those frozen assholes do for fun up there?”

Trevor smiles. “Sure, this, chuck big rocks around on ice with brooms, cut holes in frozen ponds and jump right in.”

“That’s what you did for fun?”

“Not me. Even I’m not that big of a jackass.”

“Then what?” Michael asks, suddenly curious.

Trevor stares off over the ocean, those razor eyes even sharper in the silver light. “Flew.”

“What planes?”

“No, fucking dragons.”

Michael can’t help laughing. “Seriously, you can fly planes?”

“Seriously, seriously,” Trevor acknowledges. 

“Pretty cool,” Michael admits. “Any good?” 

Something almost peaceful wafts over his face. “Very.”

“Neat,” Michael says, and feels like a complete tool five seconds later. Neat. Yeah, very cool, christ. 

“Most kids fly before they can drive up there,” Trevor says, “easier sometimes to get from point A to point B a little more direct, especially when the snow’s ten feet deep.”

“What else?” Michael asks, aiming the gun over the ocean experimentally.

He can feel Trevor smiling at him. He’s waiting for the sharp rebuke at his sudden interest but it doesn’t come.

“Well, actual _proper_ fucking sports for one thing.”

Michael snorts. “Oh yeah, like what? Gorillas on skates knocking each other’s teeth out?”

“As a gorilla yourself there champ I’d watch where you lob your feces.”

“Seriously,” Michael turns back to him, “what’s so different between football and hockey?”

Trevor holds his look. “Seriously? Everything.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

Trevor let’s out a grumbled sigh. “Skating’s just different, alright, it’s… graceful.”

“Yeah,” Michael laughs, “you’re a big fat pile of fucking grace.”

“That’s just the point, though, isn’t it? It’s fucking raw brutality hidden under grace… or the other way around, not exactly sure which.”

Michael glances over at him. He’s still wearing that dress. But hell, it must actually be pretty damn comfortable in this heat. Depending maybe on what he’s wearing under it, and jesus christ, _do not_ go there. 

Michael steps back from the ocean with a sigh. He hands the gun back to Trevor. “Here, I’m not hitting jack shit.”

“Practise, practise,” he tsks. 

“Yeah whatever.” Michael feels himself collapse on the sand next to him. It feels good, actually cooler than the air. It must be late. It takes awhile for the heat of the day to go out of it like this. “It’s nice here.”

Trevor snorts. “Ah yes, very nice. What would your fucking compadres think, huh? Your royal fucking cliche there? Scumming around a beach at 2AM with quality company like me?”

“Fuck them. I don’t care.” 

The words come out before he even hears them himself. He wonders if they’re actually true or if he only wishes they were. 

“They’re just…” Michael tries again, the taste of beer sitting heavy and dry in his mouth. “Do you ever get that feeling that you’re wearing a life that doesn’t exactly fit you right? It’s a little short on the sleeves or tight across the chest or just… something. Something off. Or you’re the one that’s not quite right. Just… something.”

Trevor stares back at him. “No. I don’t.”

“Yeah,” Michael laughs, “I guess you don’t, do you?”

Trevor shrugs. “Honestly? Who says it’s you? Those shits just seem pretty damn boring to me.”

Michael takes another swallow of his beer. “Maybe I’m pretty damn boring.”

Trevor grins back at him. “No. Sorry. You’re don’t get to be that lucky.”

Michael shakes his head with half a smile. “Yeah, cause you’d know, right?”

“Sure I would.”

“Tell you what though,” Michael returns. “ _This_ isn’t exactly ‘boring’.”

“Well, Mikey,” Trevor returns, knocking his beer against Michael’s with a short cling. “You’re welcome any damn time.”

Michael puts his hands behind his head, feeling the sand through his fingers. He closes his eyes, breathing in the smell of the ocean.

“Hey—“ Something’s tapping the center of his forehead. He opens his eyes. His own face stares back at him. Smaller, and looking a little pissed off.

Michael takes the ID from Trevor’s fingers. He peers up at it. He’d forgotten all about the damn thing. “Michael De Santa?” he reads.

“Not bad, huh?” Trevor pushes.

Michael can just see it but answers all the same. “Yeah not bad. Thanks man.”

“Thank me when you pay me.”

“You want money now?” Michael asks, fumbling for a pocket where he’s laid on the sand.

“Nah, later,” Trevor says, patting his side. “This thing doesn’t have any damn pockets.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so it's REALLY hard to shoot pistols in real life. Pop culture did not prepare me for how much you need to practice just to hit a target 15 feet away from you with .44 caliber bullets. Just you know... FYI


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick thanks to everyone who's reading! Comments and kudos are the ultimate motivation so I really appreciate everyone who's taken the time to add theirs, and/or rec/share the story <3
> 
> PS - I don't have a beta for this so some spelling/grammar errors are sure to have slipped through since I'm a terrible self editor, please let me know if catch something

“No, no, no, okay, that’s just bullshit. The second one is better, that’s the end of it.”

“Says the oh-so holy determiner of all things,” Trevor scoffs, crossing into the trailer kitchen with a few steps as the screen door swings shut behind them.

“Oh so I’m not allowed to have an opinion now?”

“What, a _wrong_ opinion? No, not allowed.”

“Which makes you right then?” Michael shoots back, sliding into his usual spot on the counter. “How’s that any different?”

“Because I’m fucking _right_ ,” Trevor returns tugging open the fridge. “Look, it’s a question of quality versus quantity, alright, and okay, sure, sometimes quantity’s not a bad choice, but it’s the space and the quiet and everything that’s _not_ that makes the first one better, alright? Not ten fucking explosions per second and a mech fight to top it off.”

“Take that back,” Michael insists firmly. “A mech fight makes anything better.”

Trevor chuckles as he rummages through the fridge. “Such a fucking cliche.”

“Oh, and you’re not, Mr. Art-House over there? ‘Space and tension allows for a superior experience’ - give me a break.”

“I really don’t think I sound like that much of an asshole.”

“Boy, do I have a surprise for you,” Michael grins back.

“Okay, fucking fine,” Trevor turns, leaning over the open door of the fridge - he’s wearing some punk-band t-shirt with the sleeves cut clean off. “What about that cat?”

Michael snorts. “What about the fucking cat?”

“Cat’s good. Cat’s quality. ‘Art-House’ bullshit aside.”

“You want me to admit it’s a better movie because of a fucking cat.”

Trevor shrugs. “I like that cat.”

“Okay, well, what about the kid?”

“What about the kid?”

“Kid’s as good as the cat. At least. No, fuck that: better.”

Trevor raises an eyebrow with amused skepticism. “You’d rather watch some scummy kid crawl through sewer grates with a dolly than see a cat snuggle up with Sigourney Weaver in her skivvies?”

Michael narrows his eyes. “We’re not getting anywhere with this, are we?”

“Shocker!” Trevor exclaims, swinging the fridge door shut again. 

“Hey, it’s your own fault for not having my level of taste okay?”

Trevor’s smiling again, he leans to one side as he crosses his arms, narrow shoulder balancing on the off-white fridge door. “Want to know what I think?”

“No,” Michael snorts.

“ _I_ think,” Trevor ignores, “that you spend the whole fucking day just _thinking_ of something we can argue about. You take all those little annoyances in your oh-so-fabulous little life, all the high-fives, and ‘yeah-bros’, and tight-ass fucking smiles, and you file them right away until you can drive over here and channel all of that staggering bullshit into some very important discussion on wether some gaudy sequel holds a flickering fucking tea-candle to one of the best suspense movies ever made.”

“Ah, right, I see,” Michael rolls his eyes. “So you’re what, my scream-pillow?”

Trevor smirks. “What the fuck's a scream-pillow? Sounds kinky.”

Michael can’t help smiling. “It’s when you yell into a pillow so no one hears.”

“Huh, so right about the kinky.” Trevor gazes out at nothing. “Rich people man. Fuck me.”

“Jesus christ, never mind - that’s a very nice theory you’ve got there, T.”

“Thank you. I made it all on my own.”

“You do seem to be leaving out the part where you’re an argumentative dick with no help from me.”

“Hey,” Trevor shrugs, “maybe I consider it a public service, channeling your rage for the good of society.”

“Yeah, a real trying public-service. You seem real pressed by the whole thing.”

“Didn’t say it wasn’t an _enjoyable_ public service,” Trevor peels off the fridge, kicking an empty can playfully across the linoleum floor. “It’s not as if you’re _actually_ pissed off anyhow. Now _that_ would be fun to see.”

“Yeah, raw rage, you really make it seem very enjoyable. Great advertisement.”

Trevor shrugs. “Hey, least I’m honest.”

Michael prickles. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Trevor turns sharply. “We’re out of beer. It’s your turn.”

The sudden pivot catches Michael off guard. “I don’t — what?”

“We. Are. Out. Of. Beer.” Trevor repeats slowly, snatching the keys to his truck off the counter. “Your. Turn.”

Michael scoffs. “I uh, I don’t think it’s actually a great idea for me to buy booze _in_ town.”

“What the fuck did I make you that quality counterfeit for then, huh? So you can jack off to yourself and your compelling criminal image?”

“I can get stuff _out_ of town, but fuck me T, I’m on the local news pretty much every night. There’s a fucking segment named after me on the sports coverage.”

Trevor grins. Michael instantly regrets it. “A segment? What’s it called?”

Michael mutters something.

“What’s that now?”

“Townley’s Turnout.”

Trevor’s face lights up like a nuclear planet. “ _Townley’s Turnout_?”

“Okay, I get it—“

“I didn’t realize I was hosting fucking Clark Gable, I would have put down some goddamn coasters.”

“Alright.”

“Can I offer you a sparkling water or a nice spritz of go-fuck-yourself?”

“Let’s just fucking go, jesus christ,” Michael groans lifting off the counter and turning towards the door.

“No, no, wait, allow me,“ Trevor tugs the door open for him.

Michael glares as he heads out. “Enough, alright.”

“It’s a shame this goddamn heat hasn’t left any puddles to throw coats over, lest your path is impeded.”

“I’ll fucking impede you if you don’t knock it off.”

Trevor chuckles, swinging into the driver’s seat of the truck.

The truck tears out of the dusty drive, heading for the twists and turns that lead back towards town. Michael leans against the door, one arm hanging off the side, hand moving idly through the hot air as it tears past while Trevor’s garbage music screams out the rusted speakers.

It’s not that late just yet, nine, maybe ten. The twilight’s burned off but the world’s still holding to blue on the edges. It’s that time of day when the world seems to at least make an effort to cool off, even if it’s just an illusion as the light vanishes. It’s hardly working tonight. It’s still hot. Damn hot. And no sign of rain on any forecast. They must be wasting half a tower’s worth of water keeping the football field as green as they have been. Practice was sweltering tonight, and the health and safety regulations making them stop every twenty minutes to chug a pint of water didn’t help any either. He’d been more than ready to get out of there by the time the final whistle blew.

He’s not exactly sure when he started coming here after practice, but it somehow seems normal already. It’s not like the guys or Amanda notice anyways. They have families, and dinners, and all the rest of that standard issue suburban bullshit. Meanwhile, he’s got nothing but disregard and boredom so yeah, why the hell not spend time where things a little more interesting.

Trevor hits a bump on the road hard enough to jolt both of them out of their seats.

“Hey! Watch it!” Michael snaps.

“Calm the fuck down, jesus, it’s not like you don’t already have brain damage.”

The truck curls around the last corner sharp as a knife, skidding to a halt in front of a crusty liquor store. 

Trevor pops the door open, hopping down. Michael follows. He doesn’t know this place, but it looks like it’s used to supplying most of the crowd this side of town. There’s broken glass scattered on the asphalt underfoot and only one working streetlight in the far corner adding to the scattered colors from the various blinking neon booze ads behind the barred windows. 

“Alrighty. In yah go champ.” Trevor leans back against the hood of the truck, nudging his head towards the front door. 

“You know,” Michael hesitates. “I haven’t… actually used this yet.”

“Oh dear,” Trevor’s brow furrows, “well, sport, if you want I can go right in with you. Hold your hand. Give you a leg up so you can reach the big-boy counter.”

“Fine, christ,” Michael grumbles, turning towards the door. He nudges his sunglasses back down onto his nose.

“Oh yeah, perfect disguise, very James-fucking-Bond.”

“Fuck off.”

The door swings open easily. The light inside is sickly, pale and green, washing the color right out of everything. It’s easy enough to grab a box of beer from the coolers in the back. Nothing fancy. 

Michael hefts it up onto the counter with a light thud.

“That all?” the cashier asks.

Michael grunts an affirmation. 

The cashier glances up at him, expression shifting slightly. “Do I know you man?”

Perfect. Fucking perfect.

“Doubt it.” He slides his ID across the counter before the guy can ask for it. “Just in from out of town.”

The cashier is still eying him but he picks the ID up anyways. He hardly looks at it before scanning the side of the cardboard box. 

“Twenty-two fifteen.”

Michael hands over the cash. It takes longer than he’d like to get his change. He hefts the box back off the counter as soon as he pockets what’s left. 

“Have a good one,” the attendant calls.

“Yeah man, you too.”

The door swings shut behind him with a small ring. As soon as the heat of the air hits him again he lets out his breath. Jesus. He hadn’t realized how hard his heart had been beating. Or maybe it’s only started to thud like that now.

Trevor’s already slow-clapping where he’s still leaned against the truck. “Hey, hey, there we go. Not so bad huh? Did they ask for an autograph Mr. Turnouts?”

“Enough, alright, here’s your fucking beer.” He shoves it into his lanky arms. Trevor grins back at him, dropping it into the back seat.

He turns back to Michael with a slow smile. His voice is lower than before. “Really. Not so bad, huh?”

Michael smiles back. “Yeah, not so bad.”

“Townley?” someone calls.

Michael freezes. The voice comes from a few cars away. He recognizes it, even without looking. How could he not?

“Is that fucking you over there Townley?”

There’s three guys across the parking lot. Older, but not by much. They climb out of a Jeep, heading their way with straight focus.

“Who’s this asshole?” Trevor asks eyeing them.

“Fucking trouble.” Michael sighs, turning turns to face the incomers. “What do you want?”

“That’s all?” The talker of the group is closer now, close enough to see clearly. He hasn’t changed much in two years. Same blocky skull. Same listlessly cruel eyes. Same stupid grin. “I was your captain Townley, can’t I get a salute?”

“Mmm, shouldn’t this be _fun_ ,” Trevor mutters under his breath.

The three come to a stop a few feet away. Michael recognizes the first two, the leader’s Craig, and his second Ritchie. They all look the same in a way, big enough to be high school athletics stars and stupid enough to not to jack shit afterwards. He’d heard that they’d been hanging around the town lately, kicked off of whatever college team they landed on and left with nothing to do but loser-lap around the town that used to worship them. Looks like the lifestyle change has done them nothing but good. 

“You’re not my captain Craig,” Michael returns flatly. “I don’t owe you jack, so just fuck off, alright.”

“Still with the attitude Townley?” Craig grins. All his high-school good looks seem to have rotted into something twisted and unsettled. ”Haven’t outgrown that yet? Thought we hazed that out of you.”

“He always was up on that high horse,” Craig’s back-up notes

“Shut up Ritchie,” Michael shoots.

“Ritchie,” Trevor snorts where he’s still leaned against the truck, “you fucking kidding me?”

“Who’s this white-trash?” Ritchie snaps.

“Princess-fucking-Diana,” Trevor grins.

“Enough,” Craig breaks in, waving off his goons. “Whatcha got there, Townley?”

“What-I-got where?”

“There.” Craig nods towards the backseat of the truck. “That.”

“Good with syllables, ain’t he?” Trevor notes.

Craig repeats himself slowly. “What the fuck is it?”

“What the fuck’s it look like?” Michael pushes back.

Craig’s lips pull into a slow smile. He was something back then, wasn’t he, back when Michael was a freshman. He’d been the top of the school, captain of the team, prom king, and all the rest of the bullshit that comes along for the ride. But two years spent battling the inevitable realization that life isn’t made up of touchdowns and skipped classes seems to have twisted those americana good-looks into something far more bitter than before. He’s got the look of someone who’s feels they’ve been cheated even though the rules were always perfectly fair, and with someone as dumb as Craig that’s not exactly a comfortable burden.

“How old are you Townley?”

“You know how old I am.”

“Got to be eighteen, huh Craig?” Ritchie says. “Just a Sophomore when we left.” 

“Got to be,” Craig confirms.

“Look, can we cut the low budget intimidation act, just tell me what the fuck you want.”

“Just a drink,” Craig shrugs.

“Or a couple,” Ritchie adds.

“Mmm, isn’t this ironic,” Trevor hums behind him.

Michael ignores him. “So, that’s what you get up to these days, huh? Hang around fucking dumps like this waiting for someone to buy you booze?”

Ritchie scowls. “You got a problem, man?”

“Yeah I got a problem. I was just in there.”

“So, it won’t be a problem to just turn around and get us a few bottles, will it?” Craig presses.

Michael can feel Trevor watching behind him. He’s perfectly still, like something wound right up tight, just waiting for one snap to uncurl all at once. The feeling of that behind him, that tension, that stillness - it makes his fingers start to itch. 

“No,” Michael says.

Craig narrows his eyes. “What’s that?”

“I said: no. I don’t like you, Craig. Or your goons. Or your trash attitude. I never did.” Michael glares, jaw set, shoulders tight. “So: fuck off.”

For a moment, the parking lot is very quiet.

Slowly, steadily, Craig starts to smile. 

“Well.“ Craig shrugs, moving to turn away. “Guess you always were just better, huh Townley.”

Michael shrugs. “Yeah. No shit.”

Craig swings.

Michael doesn’t block the punch. He doesn’t need to. The second Craig throws it Trevor’s on him like a cat out of a burning house.

He doesn’t even bother knocking Craig’s hand out of the way. He doesn’t bother dodging. He goes straight, dead-set, for him. Michael hardly has time to blink before Craig’s smashing against the asphalt with Trevor’s hands locked around his throat.

“Fuck!” someone yells. Ritchie maybe. Michaels not really listening. He’s too busy watching in shock as Craig’s face starts to fill with red, fury and panic bubbling up under his skin as he kicks and flails, trying to knock Trevor off of him. Trevor’s focus is terrifying, intent, knuckles white with pressure, stare unflinching. Michael can’t look away from his face, he doesn’t even notice the other two moving until they’ve each got a hand on Trevor’s shoulders.

“HEY!” Michael snaps back, rushing forward like a shot.

They’ve managed to drag Trevor off. Craig’s rolled over, holding his throat, coughing and gasping into the cement. Trevor’s actually _snarling_ , twisting and trashing in their grip like something they’ve pulled out of a trap. 

Ritchie chucks him, hurling Trevor back into the other guy’s grip and swinging before he can dodge. The punch lands. And something about that, something about the sound of it, raw and sharp and hard suddenly sets Michael’s blood on fire. 

It takes one tug to spin Ritchie around. He’s swinging before he can think. 

That sound is even better.

Ritchie staggers back with a messy gasp, hand shoving over his nose as blood gushes from between his fingers.

Trevor’s laughing. It’s a wild drunken sound that turns with a sharp wriggle, swinging like a catapult at the goon behind him. The punch lands, but Michael doesn’t get a chance to see how well. Ritchie is running for him.

He dodges, catches Ritchie’s shoulder as he passes, chucking him to one side. Ritchie latches on, gripping his arm like a parasite and snapping a tight fist into Michael’s gut. Michael feels hollowness pour in as his wind knocks out of him, the nausea rise like a wave behind his throat. 

He doesn’t let Ritchie go. One hand snatches his shirt, spinning him upright. He lands a punch right across his jaw, hard enough to spin him. Ritchie staggers back, managing to stay standing. Michael leans back for another. Someone catches his arm.

Craig has both arms behind Michael’s back quicker than he’s ready for. He’s still strong. Still stupid and fucking strong. Craig twists with a sharp motion. Michael roars in pain, shoulders straining raw against the joints just under the skin.

“Such a fucking star, huh, Townley, always the fucking star,” Craig hisses in his ear. He twists his neck. Ritchie’s knuckles catch him before he knows they’re coming. Lights burst, as brilliant and vicious as the pain behind his eyes. 

Ritchie hits him again. 

And again.

Michael tastes something sharp and salty against his tongue. Something’s in his eye. Something wet and stinging. He can’t see what. All he sees is red.

There’s a yell some where in the distance. It sounds a lot like: _“I’m calling the police!”_

Michael blinks, trying to get his head where it needs to be. His mouth tastes like metal and heat. There’s a dull roar in his ears. And somehow, for no fucking reason, he thinks he might just be smiling.

He knocks his head back with one sharp motion. 

His skull connects, catching Craig square in the nose. The arms on his loosen just enough. Michael shakes once and he’s free. Ritchie takes a staggering step back, and god, does that make something deep inside his chest roar.

Michael swings. Hard. 

The sound is somehow quieter this time. Just a dull meaty thunk, followed up the soft crumpling of clothes as Ritchie folds into one soft, limp pile at his feet.

Behind him, someone screams. 

Michael turns, breath still fire his chest. The third guy is staggering back, away, away from something. He’s clutching his cheek. Blood’s oozing free from behind his fingers. 

Trevor’s leaned back against a cement wall, smile loose as his posture. There’s red smeared across his mouth. 

There’s a scuff against the asphalt. Michael turns. Craig’s staggering backwards, doubled over, trying to hold his nose in place. 

Trevor peels off the wall. He takes two steps. Craig doesn’t see him. He doesn’t seem to notice much of anything. 

Trevor’s knee collides with Craig’s face in one snap. The sound cracks, vicious and crisp against the quiet of the empty parking lot.

Overhead the lone streetlight blinks.

“Trevor.” 

Michael’s voice sounds strange in his ears. Hoarse and raw, like something dragged out of a cave scratching and biting.

Craig folds onto the ground with a choked gasp that’s more gurgle than anything else. 

Trevor kicks him onto his back, straddling the prone body wide a wide stance, like some fucking cowboy in a silent movie.

There’s a sound in the distance. Something sing-song and blurred. Sirens.

Trevor’s smiling. Did he ever stop smiling? He drives a boot into Craig’s side. Hard.

Michael steps towards him, making his own mouth open. It’s harder than it should be. “Trevor!”

Trevor’s eyes snap to his, sharp and wild. His lip is bleeding, but Michael doesn’t think it’s just his blood staining his teeth.

Michael stares back at him. When the hell did he start smiling too?

Trevor’s body snaps into action all at once. He jumps off of Craig nimbly, twisting, running full-tilt towards the truck. His hand snatches Michael’s arm as he passes, pulling him behind him. Michael stumbles, catches him, panting as he jumps over the truck door into the passenger side seat just as Trevor jams the keys into the ignition.

The ignition lights. The stick slams. The truck turns, peeling away from the parking lot, and there gone.

Behind them there’s only lonely street light blinking down on three still bodies as the sound of siren’s grows in the hot air.

Michael sinks back into the seat, tring to catch his breath. It isn’t working. He feels like he’s breathing fire, like he’s made of fucking fire. Trevor’s driving faster than he ever has, tearing up each corner like a dog with a strip of meat. 

Michael’s heart is thudding behind his chest. He can’t stop fucking smiling. 

Trevor suddenly let’s out a howl next to him. It’s loud and hard and Michael’s laughing before he knows it. He can’t seem to catch the sound, and suddenly he’s fucking howling like some lunatic right along with him, through the moonlight and the heat until the truck’s skidding to a dusty halt in front of the trailer.

“Fucking-A,“ Michael swears with a gasp.

“Man,” Trevor sighs, “you really have some fantastic friends.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Michael’s heart is still racing. He can’t seem to get this feeling out of his limbs, like there’s dancing sparks trapped under the skin trying to bust out. 

“Hey,” Michael takes a good breath, “you alright?”

“Never better,” Trevor grins in a lopsided way. Michael takes the first close look at him he’s managed since Craig swung. His posture certainly doesn’t look the worse for wear, loose and carefree as ever, but his knuckles on the steering wheel are all split open, scuffed and raw and red. That split lip isn’t pretty either, already starting to swell up. There’s a few scrapes on the side of his cheek too, like someone shoved his face against concrete or asphalt and held him there as he tried to drag himself free. 

There’s still red in his teeth. Michael suddenly can’t seem to look away from that. It’s like looking back into a time when humans hadn’t forgotten they were just animals like the rest, smeared and sanguine like any other predator after a kill.

And shit, he’s staring. But fuck, does it matter?

“Did you fucking bite that guy?” Michael hears himself grin.

“That’s right.”

“Christ…”

Maybe it doesn’t matter if Michael’s staring. Trevor doesn’t seem to have a problem staring right back, running his eyes over Michael’s face like it’s suddenly become the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“God,” Trevor breathes, “you look like shit.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” Trevor echoes, not looking away. 

“That’s funny. Because I feel fucking great.”

There is it again, that thing behind those eyes, licking fire. Like looking at hidden a mirror just under the broken amber stare, a mirror reflecting something back he’s not sure anyone else sees under his skin. 

Trevor’s hand is moving. He picks up Michael’s hand. 

Michael watches distantly. Weird. It almost feels like it’s happening to someone else, like watching something on a screen - and yet, all at once, he can feel each shift, each scuff of his skin with total clarity, like every other sense has tuned right out. 

Adrenaline, some part of his brain murmurs. Funny.

Trevor turns Michael’s hand in his, staring down at it as if he’s looking for something. He rolls the palm, carefully, like someone investigating something ancient and priceless. He stretches his fingers under Michael’s splaying his hand flat on his, turning them both. He’s staring at Michael’s knuckles. Michael follows the look. They’re wrecked, two torn open like toothless bloody mouthes. 

“Ouch,” Trevor hums quietly.

Michael can’t seem to say anything. His heart suddenly seems like it’s trying to thud it’s way right up and out of his throat, skin far too tight and far too warm. It’s the fucking heat - the endless, impossible, smothering heat.

Trevor suddenly slips two fingers between his. He shoves his fingertips tight to Michael’s broken knuckles.

Michael hisses in pain, instinctively pulling his hand back. Trevor doesn’t let go.

“Feels good doesn’t it?”

Michael stares. His hand is relaxing in his grip despite the pressure. 

“What?” His own voice sounds miles away.

Trevor’s stare is burning. “Being alive.”

There’s fresh blood on his mouth. The broken lip. Still open. A growing bulb. Red and ripe. It’s growing. Heavier. Thicker. Something in his chest tightens, screams, ready to dart forward and—

Michael pulls his hand back. Trevor lets go easily. Michael’s already snapping the truck door open. “Fuck—“

He stumbles out, legs feeling suddenly strange, like they don’t belong to him and he isn’t used to using them. The fight, he reminds himself, all that adrenaline still pulsing tight under his skin and making him unsteady.

He fumbles his keys out of his pocket.

“Where yah going’?” Trevor calls. He sounds exactly the same, perfectly calm, just like any other night.

“To feel fucking alive,” Michael calls. He doesn’t turn. He doesn’t dare look. Somehow it feels like looking means losing something, even if he doesn’t know what.

“Don’t you want your hard-earned spoils?” Trevor calls.

The fucking beer. “Next time,” Michael says, climbing into the car.

“When next time? Tomorrow?”

Michaels car door slams shut. He twists the ignition and pulls out faster than he means to, dragging the shiny-black of his Audi around and away.

The car rips down the winding dirt roads. Michael’s eyes catch sight of his own knuckles on the steering wheel, blood stains pushed into two neat circles from the pressure of bony fingers. Michael pulls his hand off the wheel, wiping it furiously on the side of his pants. 

Why the hell can’t he stop breathing so damn hard? And when the fuck is his heart going to stop acting like it’s ready to jump out of his chest?

He doesn’t head home, instead curling the car at the second stoplight, racing up the hill on the west side of town. He slows down as soon as he’s close, carefully inching the car to a shadowed spot a few meters back. He climbs out, locking it behind him and heading for the familiar break in the hedges.

It’s easy enough to push through, always is. The house is dark. It must be later than he thought. The pool sits quiet and still, water gently rippling the neon surface. It only takes one good pull-up to hoist onto the low roof by the cabana and carefully climb up, trying not to make a sound on the ceramic tiles of the roof. He crosses as silently as he can, stepping up into the roof of the house. The second window on the north-side is shut tight, keeping all that air-conditioning nice and boxed in. Michael knocks two knuckles gently against the window. No response. He knocks a little harder.

Amanda throws open the window with a furious whisper. “Michael! What the hell are you— oh my _god_! What happened?”

Michael kisses her. Hard.

She gasps in surprise and chases the breath, dragging her mouth open with his and pressing even deeper. He can feel her easing under him, shocked posture going limp and loose, steadily, surely. His hands find their way to both sides of her face, tilting her head, kissing her as hard as he dares, all the while easing them back into her room. 

She makes a soft sound and he pulls back finally, hands sliding to her waist as he stands on her carpet, easing his hips against hers.

“Michael,” she whispers, “god, I—“ she’s flushed - breathless. “My parents are still home, if they—“

He’s kissing her again before she can finish. And she’s kissing him back. 

Michael curls his hands around her ass with one motion, lifting her up around his waist. She tightens her arms around his neck with a hushed gasp as he rolls his hips into hers. And god she feels good - warm and soft and just fucking perfect. It only takes a few steps to drop her back onto her bed. She swears quietly at the noise the springs make but it’s nothing, not nearly loud enough, and god would he even care if it was. 

He’s already tugging her pajama bottoms right off, opening his mouth on the smooth line of her thigh. She just manages to swallow a shocked moan, heels digging into his back, asking him closer, further, tighter.

His heart is still thudding. He can hardly hear anything else, just the sound of his heart behind his ears, the feeling of fire licking behind his chest. He can taste his own blood on her skin where his lips have left it behind and he can’t help but chase the taste, dragging his tongue after the tang of iron and salt. 

“God, Michael—“ Her hands are in his hair, gripping tight, dragging him closer. He imagines them gripping harder than they ever have. Hard enough to hurt. He nips hungrily at the naked line of her hip. She’s soft. Not sharp. All her corners smooth and warm and comfort and why is that suddenly not enough, why is there a place in his stomach twisting, begging for something sharp and furious and broken to snatch at him and slice and tear.

He shoves closer, deeper, forcing the feeling away. He tugs her panties down her thighs, opening his mouth hot and wet flush against her cunt. Her hands tighten then, manicured nails and all, breath shattering like a bottle, sprinkling all those little hollowed moans and barely contained words after it like shards of glass on the moonlit surface of a dark ocean. He pushes deeper, she grips tighter, and he lets himself drown in the thud of his own pulse.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [NOW WITH A MIX](http://8tracks.com/fortinbrasftw/suburban-trash)  
>  (there's another more game-centric mike/trev mix on my 8tracks too if you're interested)
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who's reading / commenting! Comments and kudos are the most motivating so I really appreciate everyone who's taken the time to add theirs, and/or rec/share the story <3
> 
> AGAIN: I don't have a beta for this so some spelling/grammar errors are sure to have slipped through since I'm a terrible self editor, please let me know if catch something.

“THREE MORE GAMES! THREE MORE GAMES! THREE MORE GAMES!” The sound hits Michael the second he pushes open the door and he can’t help grinning. 

The entire class is chanting, just like everyone in the hall had been, and down in the courtyard, and heading in from the parking lot. Half of them are actually pounding on their desks or stamping their feet like drums against the ground. It takes Miss. Jones a few good yells to quiet them down again.

“Mr. Townley, please,” she sighs as the deafening cheers start to ease, “take a seat before the class has a collective aneurysm.” 

“Yes ma’am.” Michael nods, easing in behind his desk. 

He’s got to admit that despite the sheer volume of all of this shit, it feels pretty damn good to be a winner. It feels good to have everyone beaming at him in the hall, to hear his name burning up the radio, to feel like he deserves it, like he earned it. And they really had. The last game had been tough, and there’d been times when he knew the guys weren’t sure if they were going to make it - but he’d broken free of that defense in the second half and when Jackson saw him cross that end-line suddenly he had to do it four more times just to show him up. The Seahorses ended up toppled by eight points on their home field. The Sharks’ bus was pelted with soda and trash the entire ride out of the parking lot and none of them could care less. Coopers managed to catch a Cracker Jacks box out of the window and feasted on the contents the whole ride home. 

“Now, where were we before Mr. Townley decided to grace us with his presence,” Miss Jones continues, turning back to the board. “Miss Jaffe, maybe you can remind us.”

Class continues just as it always does. Questions. Answers. Books. Notes. Michael turns eventually, looking over his shoulder as casually as he can manage. Trevor’s leaned back in his usual seat, legs spread out, erratic and cock-eyed under the desk. He rolls his eyes when Michael nods in his direction but he’s smiling all the same. His lip’s still split, only now the cut’s sealed into a dark red line that makes his smile exceptionally lopsided and jagged. His cheek still has a handful of scraps dragged across it, but other than that he’s not looking too much worse for wear. Michael’s probably looking worse, but at least he has practice and games as an excuse for that.

Class drags on: something about an essay he’ll pay someone to do for him, a test he might actually have to study for, the usual. It’s harder to focus now that they’re so close to the big final game. Just two more and then they’re there, playing for that Championship. He never thought he could get excited about something as ridiculous as a trophy but god, he really is. Anyways, it’s not just about that, is it? The recruiters will be at the games now, all he has to do is impress them and then he won’t have to give a shit about essays and tests and all the rest of the pedantic academic bullshit. 

The bell rings shrilly overhead. The class splinters towards the door. Michael waits. Trevor passes and he follows him out, a few steps behind. He can’t seem to help himself, easing next to him as the crowd splits into every different direction. “See the game?”

Trevor snorts. “What? The game _three_ counties over? Oh no, so sorry. I had the kids that day see, and all this darn house-cleaning to do, just I couldn’t seem to make the forty minute drive to watch you prance your ass around indulgent landscaping for two fucking hours.”

“Too bad. It was a good game,” Michael says, easily shouldering off the sarcasm. 

“Look pork-chop,” Trevor says, turning to face him with a twisted smile, “I couldn’t give a shit about testosterone-fueled spandex-sporters running around a field, not unless they’re heading my way to suck my cock, alright? Fuck football.”

“Don’t knock it till you try it.”

“You know, I haven’t been dusting my meals with much arsenic lately, am I allowed to knock that one?”

“Just think you might like it,” Michael shrugs.

“Is that right?” Trevor’s eyes sharpen with curiosity, he leans against the nearest locker, cocking his head to one side. “And since when would you know what the fuck I like?”

“Well, let’s see,” Michael leans himself, forearm against the cool metal of the lockers, ignoring the passing shouts of _TOWN-LEEEY_ and _YEEAH SHARKS_.

“What’s football got that you take some interest in,” Michael continues, he lifts up a hand, counting on his fingers. “We’ve got mindless violence—”

“—Behind four layers of plastic,” Trevor corrects.

“Crowds of sheep spurred in a screaming gladiatorial rage, each one of them ready to be mocked.”

“That one’s not too bad.”

“Tight pants. Short skirts.”

“Mmm. Fair point. Fair point.”

“Not to mention—“

“Michael?” 

Michael turns sharply. 

Amanda and Christie are staring back at him. 

He falls off the lockers instantly, stumbling out of Trevor’s space. And when the fuck did he get that close?

“What are you doing?” Amanda asks, voice quiet.

“Hey. Que pasa?” Trevor says, eyeing the both of them with that grin dragged across his cheeks.

“Nothing,” Michael says instantly, heading towards her. “Come on, let’s go.” He wraps an arm around her shoulder, turning them smoothly and successfully in the opposite direction and heading down the hall.

“I’ll keep those pants in mind next time, Mikey!” Trevor calls after them. Michael can’t help flinching.

“What the hell was that?” Amanda hisses. It’s good timing. He’s asking himself the same damn question.

“Nothing. Let’s go. We’re gonna be late for lunch.”

 

The cafeteria is buzzing. When they slide into the table lunch is already waiting for them. An especially nice one.

“What’s this?” Michael asks, eyeing the plates of burgers and hotdogs and cookies. 

“Breakfast of Champions,” Coopers grins.

“The Juniors are paying us tribute,” Jackson notes, picking what looks like an actual eclair. “At least the ones hoping to make the team next year are.”

“We won’t be here next year,” Michael says. “Nothing to do with us.”

“Yeah, well, not to bright, are they?”

“Screw the food,” Ramirez chimes in, “we all ready for that rager tonight? Amanda, your folks are all set right, didn’t decided to stick around at home after all?”

“Left this morning,” she answers. “Won’t be back until, Monday.”

“You’re sure?” Blake presses.

“Please,” Amanda rolls her eyes, “that couples’ weekend is non-refundable. I think my dad would rather spend the entire trip with food poisoning than not get his money’s worth.”

“And what about you Michael, that fake work out?”

Amanda frowns next to him but he ignores it. 

“Worked great.”

“And by great you mean…”

“I mean we have two kegs and they’re already my garage.”

“Shit!” Coopers says. “Damn dude, I don’t think I’ve ever been to a party with two kegs before.”

“Should be good, as long as we don’t get any unexpected company,” Jackson notes.

Amanda looks up. “What do you mean?”

“Just that dip-shit Craig that Michael got into it with the other night.”

“Oh,” Amanda says.

“Is that what happened to your face, Michael?” Blake asks.

“Yeah.” He’s still got a pretty good bruise on one cheek and a slice on the opposite eyebrow. Everyone else seemed to just assume it happened during one of the games or practice, but the guys knew better.

“I still can’t believe you had to deal with that shit on your own,” Ramirez says. “Man, if we had been there he would have seriously regretted all those years of giving us hell on the field.”

Michael takes a bite of his burger, wondering if any of the juniors that carefully prepared all of this would be saying the same thing about them in a few years.

“At least it was _just_ Craig,” Christie notes, “I heard he’s been hanging with some other guys, they’re like some loser gang of has-beens.”

“Still wish we’d been there,” Coopers continues. “What the hell were you up to anyways? You’ve been vanishing into the freakin’ night like batman right after practice. Just running around picking fights with douchebags?”

He can feel Amanda’s eyes on him.

“It’s nothing,” Michael shrugs off.

“Parents up your ass again?” Jackson asks.

“Yeah, that’s it.” Right. As if that could, in any possible universe, be it.

“They’re not going to get on you about the party, are they?” Black asks.

“No, fuck no. That’s on,” Michael insists, leaning back in his seat. “I need to let off some steam.”

 

The day passes in a blur of cheers, chants, and congrats, his own giant face on that ridiculous banner beaming over it all. The sun sets hard and heavy over the dry hills, turning a hot day into a sweltering night. The evening drapes over Amanda’s house all alive with glittering lights and sound. In this heat the beer isn’t even cold, not after sitting under a tarp in his garage for three days, but that hardly matters. Amanda’s is packed to bursting, house bustling with slurred cheers, stumbling feet, and sloshing drinks. The backyard buzzes around the grill and the kegs. Someone opened up the pool as soon as the party started so half the yard’s now filled with bikinis and surf shorts, red plastic cups floating in the neon blue of the water. Music wafts, humming under the surface of drunken laughter and the occasional screech as someone topples into the pool. 

Michael peels another burger off the grill and Ramirez instantly grabs it. “Hey!” Michael yells.

“What?” He downs half the thing in one bite. “ ‘M ‘ungry!”

“Whatever, I’m done anyways.” Michael turns away, picking his beer up again. It’s his fourth and it’s sitting pretty damn perfect. He lets the warm amber taste of it roll down his throat and licks his lips. “Nice night, huh.”

“Yeah not bad,” Ramirez nods, finishing the burger.

Two girls tumble into the pool full dressed and pop back up, one laughing one screaming.

Michael smiles. “ _This_ , was a good idea.”

“For sure. And hey, we deserve it, huh?” Ramirez knocks his cup against Michael’s. 

“Sure we do. Three games left,” Michael returns. “Not too bad.”

“Not bad at all.”

They stand for a moment drinking in silence. He can see Amanda dancing with someone from the squad inside, a smile bright and loose across her cheeks. The warm haze of cheap beer is making his head feel calm suddenly, as if things are just fine after all. It’s a blithe sort of contentment, and he doesn’t mind it. Not right now. Not yet. 

“Hey man, can I ask you something?” Ramirez starts.

Michael shrugs. “Why the hell not?”

“What seriously happened to your face?”

Michael feels his nerves prick, but it’s easy to push aside. He’s good at this sort of thing. “I told you. Ran into Craig. He was being a dick. Shit went down.”

“Yeah but where?”

Michael takes another sip. “Just on the street man.”

“Where on the street?”

“Fuck me I don’t know, jesus, why, you want to go take blood samples or something?”

“Nah man, look, I just… Jamie’s cousin said he heard from some dude that he saw a fight outside a liquor store over by that trailer park across town. I just wondered, is all.”

“People fight. There’s a lot to fight over. Mostly how fucking hot it is outside.”

“Yeah right. I figure it wasn’t you… they said it was more than one guy anyhow.”

“Yeah. Right.”

“Some bulkier kid and a skinny one, they said, fighting off three others.”

“Sounds like a pretty good show.”

“Apparently the two of them beat the shit out of three others.”

“Sucks to be the three.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

The party rolls on all around them. Michael thinks the kid by the fence might be throwing up into Amanda’s parents tomato plants.

“Where _have_ you been lately though, man,” Ramirez adds.

“What do you mean where? I’m right fucking here.”

“Yeah. Now. But you haven’t been around. After practice you’re pretty much gone within ten minutes and you don’t answer your phone.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. What? You sexting me? Waiting for some push back?”

“Alright, alright. You don’t have to be a dick about it.”

“I have to be a dick about most things apparently,” Michael continues blithly, the booze making his tongue run without any help from upstairs, “seems like that’s pretty much what I’m good for.”

“Look dude, sorry, okay, it’s not my fucking business. Parents can be a pain, chicks can be demanding, whatever.”

“Yeah. Whatever,” Michael repeats.

Ramirez takes another long sip. Eventually a smile curls back onto his face. “Shit man. I still can’t believe you just ran with that one last game.”

“Yeah,” Michael tilts his head to one side. “Not bad, huh?”

“Dick move,” Ramirez grins.

“Like I said. It’s what I do.”

The crowd ripples across from them. Michael tries to focus. Amanda is pushing her way out of the house. She’s heading towards them at a stumbling pace. Her hair’s in her face but she blows it back angrily. A path clears in front of her as drunken bodies hurry to get out of the way.

“Oh boy,” Ramirez notes, “incoming.”

“Shit,” Michael groans.

“Michael,” Amanda calls, closing the distance.

“Did Beth throw up in your tub again?” Ramirez asks.

“There’s a situation,” she says, coming to a stop in front of them. “Inside.”

“Look,” Michael says, “I don’t want to clean up another fucking mess, alright, someone else can deal with it.”

“No one else is going to deal with it. You’re going to deal with it.”

Michael frowns. She really does look pissed.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Just… god, just follow me. Alright? Before this gets any worse.” She turns back towards the house.

Michael glances at Ramirez. He shrugs his shoulders back. They fill up their cups again before following her inside.

The party feels even fuller within the walls of the house. They were smart enough to push back or seal away anything that could really get broken, which is a good thing since it’s wall to wall with squirming sweating bodies, drooping under drunk and bouncing to the music that’s pulsing from deeper in the house. Amanda heads straight through it, and with Michael and Ramirez behind her any pressing crowds shift back, like a breeze against sand, clearing the way for them to get through without so much as a push. 

As they get deeper in the sounds change and shift. The music quiets. There’s the smell of weed and the low relaxed voices from the kids smoking in a corner of the living room, muffled knocks and moans behind one of the bathroom doors, raucous laugher from the basement stairs, and as they get closer to the kitchen a crisp voice cuts through the rest.

“Well, they’re obviously idiots. Who the hell thinks that prancing a hundred meters is more demanding then flashing your ass at two-hundred people ten times a night, huh?”

Shit. _Shit_. 

“That’s what I said!” Blake’s voice insists. “Christie, isn’t that exactly what I said?”

“Well, not _exactly_ —”

“Now Christie,” the voice continues, “I just gotta say, that new haircut is just _fantastic_ on you.”

Fucking _christ_. Michael picks up his pace.

“Oh, I don’t know… Really?”

“Really? Fucking christ, _yes_ really!”

Christie makes a skeptical sound.

“Hey. Enough of that bullshit, alright? It looks amazing. Brings out those cheekbones.”

“That’s what the stylist said, but Amanda says it’s too short.”

“Yeah, well who made _Amanda_ fucking queen of the universe, huh? Don’t let that get in your way, yeah?”

Amanda turns the corner into the kitchen with one motion. “Leave. Now.”

Michael steps in behind her. The scene is even worse than he’d expected. The kitchen is filled with girls. Trevor’s perched up on the countertop wearing a red flannel and jeans that actually look like they’ve been washed sometime in the past week, leaning back against the counter, both hands behind the girls on either side of him: Blake on the left, and someone Michael thinks is called Stacy on the right. 

Christie’s spine straightens as soon as Amanda’s voice sounds. “Jesus, Amanda, I didn’t—“

“Hey! Mikey!” Trevor grins, unwrapping his arm from behind Stacy to give a wave.

“Leave,” Amanda repeats. “Michael. Tell him.”

Michael tries to mentally teleport himself literally _anywhere_ else. “Urhhhh….”

Blake raises a manicured brow. “What’s your beef, Mandy?”

“I want _him_ ,” she gestures towards Trevor, “out of my house.”

“Why?” Blake laughs.

“What do you mean _why_? Isn’t it obvious? I am the only one who’s not insane enough to see how obvious that is?”

“He’s actually not _that_ bad, Amanda…” Christie tries.

“Yeah. He’s not _that_ bad Amanda,” Trevor grins back.

“Look at him!” Amanda suddenly yells. “He looks like he’s going to start selling meth out by the fucking pool!”

“Come on now, Mand. Anyone with any kind of sense can see this is a coke crowd.”

“Look at his face!” she continues. “He looks like he tried to murder someone on the way here!”

“Yeah well,” Blake shrugs, “he’s not the only one.” Her gaze falls on Michael, and jesus how the hell is he going to escape this moment.

“Mmm, yeah, what happened there buddy?” Trevor asks, brow furrowed in mock-concern. “Someone come in for one of those sportsman-like hugs a little too hard?” 

“Shut up,” Michael snaps.

“Yes, shut up,” Amanda agrees, grasping at any straws. “It’s my house. It’s my party. I decided who comes through this door, and I want _you_ , out.”

“Oh come _on_ , Amanda, don’t be a snob,” Blake groans. “He’s more fun than half the dip-shits in here.”

“Pretty dip-shit dense,” Trevor observes. He hasn’t stopped looking at Michaels since he came in. 

“These are our _friends_ , Blake!” Amanda shouts.

“What’s his name?” Trevor asks.

“What?” Amanda glares.

“Him.” Trevor points to some guy leaning against the door who must have come in after hearing the raised voices. In fact more than a few people have started to gather since this “conversation” started. “What’s his name? That jackass wearing his mom’s shirt.” The poor kid slowly looks down at his tank-top with a distressed expression. Blake snorts a laugh.

Amanda opens her mouth, then shuts it. “It doesn’t matter what his name is.”

“Oh, excuse _me_ , I thought these were your ‘friends’.”

“You’re not,” she seethes.

“Ah, well,” Trevor gaze meets hers like a blade. “Least you know my name. Isn’t that right, sugar?”

Amanda goes very still. “Michael.”

Michael says nothing. He’s finding it oddly hard to make his mouth do anything at all. Maybe he shouldn’t have had four beers…

Amanda’s voice is hard as steel. “Are you going to let him talk to me like that?”

“Yeah, Michael,” Trevor’s stare is firm on his, but there’s more than just amusement under it now, something venomous is twitching it’s tail just under the surface. “You gonna let me talk to her like that?”

“Amanda, _calm down_ ,” Blake stars again, “look you didn’t even know he was here—“

“Be quiet, Blake. Michael?”

Michael stares. Everyone has gone very quiet. There’s far more people in the room than there were only a minute ago.

“I…” He tries. Trevor gazes back at him, expression daring and fascinated. “Look, Mand… is he really doing that much harm?”

Shocked silence fills the room.

Ramirez’s voice is quiet. “Dude…”

Amanda turns to face him, eyes wide. “What did you say?”

“Well, what do you want me to do, huh? Hit him? Drag him out of here? That’s going to go real well, then I can get kicked off the team for throwing punches at other students.” And there it is, thank fucking god, the easy excuse slipping over him with a wash of relief.

“I just—“ Amanda starts again.

“What the _fuck_?” someone suddenly yells.

The room shifts, staring for the source of the voice.

Coopers is shoving his way through the crowd from the backyard.

“Ooo boy,” Trevor whistles through his teeth. 

Coopers stumbles into the kitchen - he’s obviously had more than a few beers already. His eyes instantly fall on Trevor, then follow his arm steadily, back to where it’s resting casually close behind Blake’s hips.

“What the _fuck_?!” he repeats. This time the words are a good deal louder.

“Oh for christ’s sake Coopers, it’s nothing—“ Blake sighs rolling her eyes.

“Doesn’t look like fuckin’ nothing!”

“Yeah, well,” Trevor pushes his arm closer to Blake, “I considered popping her a few ruffies but I sold them all last week to a few guys who look exactly like you.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“Oo, clever, isn’t he. Nice choice, Blake.”

“Don’t talk to her,” Coopers roars. Michael can practically see his vision going redder each second.

“Yeah? Who the fuck are you?” Trevor grins. “Mother-superior?”

“That’s fucking it—“ Coopers launches across the room, snatching Trevor’s shoulders and dragging him back off the counter. 

Michael stomach drops. Trevor doesn’t do one single thing to stop him. He was fucking waiting for it.

Coopers growls, getting an arm around Trevor’s neck and dragging him out towards the door. The crowd scatters, clearing to make room. When Coopers finally gets him outside it fells like the whole damn party pours through the sliding glass doors with shouts and whoops. 

Michael’s running before he knows it, shoving his way through the others. It feels like the girls are behind him but he can’t be sure. He doesn’t care. He hears Coopers roar as he throws Trevor away from him. He bursts free from the crowd just in time to see Trevor roll loosely onto the lawn. He’s not even trying to fight him. Not yet. He doesn’t look mildly concerned, amusement and some deeper, dark and hunger licking around his expression.

“COOPERS!” Michael yells. “STOP IT!”

Cooper’s is breathing hard through his nose, like some enraged bull. “Fuck off, Michael!”

“The fuck did you say to me?” Michael yells.

“I SAID: FUCK. OFF!” Coopers roars.

Trevor’s laughing on the grass. He twists his body nimbly and is on his feet in a second, shifting his shoulders and shaking out his neck. 

“Hey, what the hell is this?” Jackson yells, pushing to the front.

“That punk showed up,” Ramirez answers from behind him.

“You do not fucking talk to me like that, Coopers,” Michael snarls.

“Someone’s got to put this piece of shit in his place, Townley and if you’re not going to do it, I am!”

Trevor’s swaggering closer, and god he looks ready for it. He looks fucking starved for it. He still has a glass beer bottle in his hand.

“No one’s going to do shit,” Michael insists, trying to keep his voice calm. “This is stupid, Coopers, cut it out.”

“Cut what out!” Coopers yells. “He shows up out of nowhere. Amanda wants him out. How is this a fucking problem?”

“Yeah, Mikey, how’s this a fucking problem?” Trevor snarls.

“You’re not going to fight him, Coopers,” Michael tries. _He’s going kill you, you moron._

“Oh, so you get throw punches whenever the hell you want, but I get the Dad Check, jesus Mike!”

“Just hit him Coopers,” Ramirez groans.

“No!” Michael roars. “Look - that’s… You’ll get kicked off the team, man. He’s not worth it.”

Something behind Trevor’s eyes suddenly flares. Michael looks away. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Coopers glares.

“If you get in a fight, with another student, you’re out - that’s the rules man. You’ll get suspended and they’ll kick you right off the team. Anyone caught fighting gets kicked off. Don’t you remember what happened to Kiplinger sophomore year?”

The fury is still boiling off of Coopers, but he’s slowly now, that beer-soaked rock of a brain trying to process this new information. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously,” Jackson agrees.

“Well… who the fuck cares? Who’s going to tell anyone!”

“Coop,” Michael insists, “there’s three hundred people here. Someone _will_ find out.”

Coopers’ breathing is starting to slow. He gazes around at the crowd.

“It’s stupid man, just let it go,” Jackson adds from behind Michael, stepping closer. 

Coopers swallows, finally, finally giving one hard nod.

“Bullshit, let it go—!“ Trevor suddenly lunges forward.

Michael moves quicker than he thought he could this drunk. He catches his arm by the wrist, getting his other arm around his waist. The bottle falls from Trevor’s hand, smashing on the lawn. Trevor let’s out a snarl, shoving against Michael’s grip but Michael holds on tight. He’s stronger than him. With space between them and room to move, who knows how it would go, Trevor might just have the upper hand, but close, like this, he’s got him, even if Trevor’s sinewy muscles are tight as wires under his hands. 

He speaks quietly, low enough for only them to hear. “Hey. Alright. Let it go.”

Trevor’s body responds, limbs loosening ever so slightly. Michael takes the opening, spinning him with a hand on the back of his neck and shoving him towards the gate.

Behind them he thinks he can hear Jackson doing just about the same with Coopers.

“Where the fuck are we going?” Trevor spits.

“Getting you the fuck out of here,” Michael growls back.

“Such a good boy, huh, doing as your told,” Trevor hisses. Michael tightens his grip on the back of his neck, making him inhale sharply.

Michael shoulders through the gate to the back yard, away from the staring crowd to the sidewalk beyond. The door swing shut behind them. 

“ _Fuck_!” Trevor twists away from him instantly, staggering back to himself out on the street. “You’re a real asshole, you know that?”

Michael let’s out a disbelieving laugh. “Me? How the hell am I the asshole in this situation.”

“ _They_ are a pack of jackasses, and you couldn’t care less, could you?” Trevor paces in front of him, body still humming with unspent energy.

“Look man, just calm down alright.”

“Don’t ‘look man’ me fuck-face! _I_ am the reason there even is a party here to begin with. _I_ got you that fake, and _I_ made sure you had the balls to use it, and after all of that _I_ don’t even get invited to throw back cheap booze and puke into pools with the best of ‘em.”

“Whoa, hey now, I thought you said they’re all jackasses. Now you want a fucking invitation?”

“It’s a fucking courtesy, alright, that’s all, some goddamn manners after all the trouble I went through to get you all liquored up and sloppy, right?”

“Right of course and why the hell would I think you would _want_ to come? All you do is talk about how much you hate all this shit.”

“Yeah well maybe I don’t hate _all_ of this shit,” Trevor says, eyeing him hard. “Alright?”

It falls quiet. Trevor turns away, kicking a stray rock like it just keyed his car. They stand there for a while, alone in the street. Behind them it’s easy enough to hear the party still thudding away. It sounds as it nothing ever happened.

“How’s your face?” Michael asks finally.

“Been worse.”

“Could have gotten worse tonight. Why the hell were you goading him in there?”

Trevor isn’t facing him, he’s gazing off down the hill, where the lights from other houses and eventually the town pick up, sharp pin-pricks in the heavy blue blanket of the night. “See, the thing is, I don’t understand how _everyone_ doesn’t want to punch a tit like that in the right between the teeth.”

Michael laughs. Trevor turns at the sound, a smile sneaking onto his cheeks.

“Yeah I think maybe most people do,” Michael says. “They just don’t even consider it an option.”

“Why not?”

“Well, there’s, uh, society. General morality. All that stuff humanity’s spent a couple of millennia working on.”

Trevor snorts. “Sounds boring.”

“Yeah,” Michael laughs. “Yeah, maybe it is. But hey, it’s what we’ve got.”

“Hey,” Trevor spins suddenly. “Fuck them. Come with me.”

Michael blinks. “What?”

“Fuck off from your little party here. We can find something better to do.”

Michael stares back at him. There’s something humming under his own skin, something from the booze or the heat in the air or the expression on Trevor’s face. 

“I don’t know man… Amanda’s pretty pissed.”

“So what? Lie.”

“Lie?”

“Yeah, sure, tell her it took you a while to get rid of me. Tell her whatever, make something up. You seem good at that.” The last sentence comes out more a sneer than anything else.

“She doesn’t… I don’t think she deserves that,” Michael manages.

“Ah, right, well,” Trevor glares back. “Then maybe she doesn’t deserve you. Or you her. One way or the other. Same thing in the end.”

Michael’s brain tries to wrap around most of that but can’t quite make it. Shit. Maybe he is more drunk than he realized. 

“Fine,” Trevor suddenly shouts. “Fucking fine.” He’s turning away, heading for the red truck parked half a block down. “Enjoy wonderland.”

Michael watches him. A sharp shape casting a jagged shadow as he saunters down the hill, kicking rocks all along the way. Behind Michael’s back the party sounds just the same as when he left. Like a loop. One long loop of fake laugher and hand-me-down personalities and glazed empty eyes. He’s supposed to be there. He’s supposed to step back through that door and get in his place on the spinning endless track of it all, voice merging into the endless indifferent buzz.

The lights on the back of Trevor’s truck spring to life like embers.

“HEY!” Michael yells.

It takes him half a minute to jog down the hill. He jumps into the passenger side just as Trevor starts to pull away, sliding down clumsily into the leather.

Trevor doesn’t say a word, simply watches the road with a small smile on his lips as the truck curls out and around the suburban streets.

Michael lets his head fall back against the seat. That same hum thrums under his skin, the heat of the summer air washes over them, dry and crackling, and soon enough, the lights of the party are indistinguishable, falling back with all the rest as the road stretches out before them.


	6. Chapter 6

“They’re going to cancel the game,” Michael grumbles.

“They’re not going to cancel the game,” Jackson insists. 

“Have you _looked_ outside?”

“It’s cloudy. So what?” Coopers says.

“Cloudy. Yeah, right - it looks like fucking Mordor is approaching.”

“That’s what happens when it doesn’t rain for two months,” Ramirez says, leaning on the table to take another bite of his sandwich.

“They said it might miss us,” Christie notes, “pass right over and curl back out to sea.”

“Yeah, and when did they say it was supposed to start if it doesn’t magically skip on over?”

“I think they said tonight. Not sure when,” Jackson says.

“Hey!” another voice calls. Michael turns; Blake and Amanda are sliding in at the table. 

Amanda sits next to him wearing his jacket as usual. So, not that pissed off after the party apparently. He wasn’t exactly sure if she’d been angry with him or not. When he’d made up some excuse about being out that night it seemed as though she’d been so glad to have Trevor off her property that she couldn’t care less if he went too, lies not withstanding. He still wasn’t sure if that was actually a good thing or not.

“They haven’t cancelled anything yet,” Amanda says, “and they’re not going to.” 

“What makes you so sure?” Michael asks.

She shrugs. “I know a girl on the Silverbacks’ squad. We used to go to camp together. She says that they’re practically foaming at the mouth for a chance to rip you off your high-horse.”

Michael can’t help grinning. “Then here’s hoping they get to try it.”

“Seriously, you’ve been their main competition this whole season. They’re not missing this.”

“Even if it starts to rain,” Jackson says, “they can just hold off until it stops.”

Blake eyes the sky outside the window skeptically. “Doesn’t look like it’s going to be the stopping kind of rain.”

“So we playing the rain. Fuck it,” Ramirez shrugs. “I’m not letting some pussies from that dirtbag county think we’re not ready to kick their asses.”

“Home game too,” Christie notes, “the whole town will be there, more than the town. Everyone. Rain or not.”

“Will your Friend make it, Michael?” Amanda asks.

The table falls quiet.

Michael looks over to her. “Who?”

“You know who.”

“I honestly don’t.”

“Just seems like he’s taken an interest in the team.”

“Who the fuck are you talking about?” he tries.

Amanda rolls her eyes. “Cute Michael, very cute.”

Okay fine, maybe she is a little pissed.

“I don’t know who the fuck is going to the game,” he continues, “who am I, the bookie?”

“No, but he might be,” Amanda sneers.

“ _He_ doesn’t, uh, exactly seem like the football type,” Christie chimes in.

“Better fucking not be,” Coopers growls into his burger. “Punk ass shit.”

“I hope he does come,” Blake says defiantly, “I still can’t believe you guys kicked him out the other night. He’s a _good_ time.”

“He’s a fucking psycho-time,” Jackson grumbles. “Amanda was right to get him out of there.”

“Hey, I’m the one who got him ‘out of there’,” Michael reminds firmly.

“Eventually,” Amanda levels.

“Well, I think he’s cool,” Blake says.

Ramirez laughs aloud. “Cool? The kid with the fucking brat-pack tank-tops and the haircut to match? Yeah. Real cool. Very hip.”

“The eighties is the new vogue, for your information,” Blake says. “GQ predicted it as the next throwback style for the spring.”

_Yeah he’ll fucking love that._ Michael smiles to himself.

“That is true,” Christie notes, “I read that last week.”

“So you’re on her side?” Amanda turns towards her sharply.

“I’m not on anyone’s side, I just… I kinda see her point. He is kinda cool. Interesting at least. Right?”

“Yes!” Blake calls supportively. “Exactly, Chris. Interesting! I mean come on Amanda, you’re telling me you don’t find anything sexy about that whole ‘give no fucks’ swagger?”

“Blake!” Amanda cries. “No! Christ, that’s disgusting!”

“You’re such a hypocrite,” Blake rolls her eyes, “you told me just the other night that when Michael came back from that fight you had the best—“

“ _Blake!_ ” Amanda hisses.

Jackson’s chuckling into his pasta. Michael catches Ramirez’ eyes and gets a wink back. He ignores it firmly.

“Fine, whatever,” Blake waves off, “but you’re only lying to yourself. Maybe it’s an maturity thing - seeing the _real_ appeal in people.”

“Blake. You’re five months older than her,” Christie says.

“Maybe five months is all it takes to find someone who walks like _that_ , with a smile that could cut you right open, _’interesting’_.”

Michael stares very hard at his plate.

“God Blake, you can be so childish,” Amanda says.

“What? It’s illegal to think someone’s got sex appeal now?” 

“Would you just shit the fuck up already, Blake,” Coopers hisses. He’s holding his fork way too tightly.

“Hey man,” Jackson tries.

“No. All of you shut the fuck up,” Coopers growls.

“We broke up six months ago Coopers, so mind your own business, alright,” Blake scoffs.

“Blake,” Christie tries gently.

“Yeah, good thing too,” Coopers pushes back. “Didn’t realize you were such a fucking slut.”

“Hey!” Michael yells.

“Oh yeah,” Coopers sneers, “you know what, fuck you too man, if it wasn’t for you that kid’s head would be smeared across Amanda’s lawn for the fucking landscapers to clean up.”

“Hey man,” Jackson says, “if it wasn’t for Michael you’d still be pulling broken bottle out of your gut, _and_ watching the game on public access, so how about you calm down. She’s just trying to start shit. Always is.”

“Am not,” Blake teases, watching Coopers with an amused expression.

“Fuck this,” Coopers spins away from the table, “I’m going to the gym.”

Michael doesn’t watch him as he goes. He’s too busy trying to think about absolutely nothing. 

“Nice Blake, really nice,” Ramirez says.

“Screw you guys,” Blake smiles. “I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.”

“We shouldn’t be wasting our energy,” Jackson insists. “There’s a game tonight. Rain or not. And it’s a fucking big one, so how about we step off from this petty bullshit, huh?”

Amanda doesn’t answer. In fact she doesn’t speak for the rest of lunch, even though Christie does a pretty amazing job shifting the conversation. Michael glances over, watching her move food around her plate. He reaches down and puts a hand on her leg. After a minute she covers it with her own, but it doesn’t feel quite right, like something made of cardboard and hardly there at all.

Lunch finishes without any more trouble. They leave to the chants and cheers of the entire cafeteria. Michael turns towards class outside. He gives Amanda’s hand a squeeze. She doesn’t let go. He turns back to her. 

“What’s up?”

She looks uncomfortable, with an ember of anger still glowing under her eyes. It’s a dangerous looking combination. 

“I want you to do something. For me.”

“For you?”

“That’s right. Would you do something for me?”

The reply springs out of him like any prepared line. “Yeah. Of course. Anything.”

She stares back at him hard. “Don’t spend time with him.”

He’s about to ask “who” but her expression stops him. He blinks back at her. “I don’t.”

She doesn’t flinch. “I don’t want you to spend time with him. Never. Understand?”

Michael furrows his brow. ”Look, Mand, I know you’re worried, but there’s no reason for it. Seriously.”

“Can you promise me?”

“Promise you what?”

“Promise to stay away from him.”

Michael stares back at her. It’s quiet for a moment too long. “No problem,” he catches. “Of course. Doesn’t matter anyways.”

“It matters to me.”

“Yeah, well it doesn’t mean jack-shit to me, so it’s no problem.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

She turns to leave, holding her bag close to her chest.

“Hey—“ He catches her arm, turning her back. She lets him. He leans in. He lets her step closer on her own, tilting her chin upwards with a knuckle. Michael kisses her. She’s stony at first, but opens at the end, just enough to taste.

“See you tonight,” he smiles.

She smiles back. An honest smile. “Yeah, see you.”

He watches her go, hips swinging lightly with her pace, his jacket on her shoulders, that deep low breeze that always comes before storms catching her hair, turning it redder than normal against the grey of the clouds overhead. He watches until she turns the corner into the courtyard, vanishing from sight.

 

Michael stares up at the sky. How the hell has it not started raining yet? The field cowers under the pressing weight of bloated sky, all thick tones of grey steadily, slowly, shoving back and forth for dominance. It looks as though it’s ready to crack apart any second, drown the entire field, the fucking county. But it hasn’t. Not yet. And he can almost taste the electric pressure of that not yet on the warmth of the air. 

“Shit,” Jackson mutters next to him, peering up. 

“Yeah,” Michael echoes.

The crowd doesn’t seem to notice, that or it’s only making the energy of the oncoming game that much more powerful. The chanting’s already started, hundreds of feet slamming in rhythm down on the metal of the bleachers, screams and calls echoing out defiantly against the sky.

Michael adjusts his helmet under his arm, gazing out across the field. He can see Amanda and the others running onto the green, facing the crowd, channeling the cheers. Beyond them is the other team. They look more than ready, pacing up and down, slamming their hands and heads together with short yells and bursts of motion.

Ramirez hand comes down hard on his shoulder. “Ready?”

Behind him the rest of the team is starting to chant, something low, gruff, and tribal.

“Damn right,” Michael returns, giving his shoulder a slap right back. The ref is already half way across the field, the other team’s QB heading in after him. Michael follows, heading out alone towards the green. As soon as he touches the field the screams erupt from the crowd. Chants flood in on all sides: “ _Townley! Townley! Townley!”_

He jogs to a stop in front of the ref. “You boys ready?” the ref asks.

“How ‘bout it Townley, you ready?” The other team’s captain is glaring right back at him. He meets his eye. He’s heard of him, Haines, one of the best in the state according to the news. He’s certainly big enough for it, probably has four inches on Michael. He looks about ready to rip Michael’s head off and wear it home as a trophy. Well. This should be interesting at the very least.

“It’s your call man,” Michael reminds with a smirk.

Anger darkens in Haines’ eyes. He nods to the ref, “Ready.”

The ref flicks the coin. “Heads,” Haines calls. It’s tails.

“Ball to home,” the ref calls, signaling to the crowd and stepping back as the cheers erupt.

Haines holds out his hand. Michael takes it and Haines squeezes hard, giving him a barely noticeable tug. Michael tightens his own grip right back. Haines holds on, voice low enough for the ref to easily miss it against the roaring of the crowd. “Heard that was your piece of ass over on those sidelines, Townley. Cute little schrunchie. Perky tits. Maybe when we wipe the floor with your ass I’ll take her for a ride, show her what a winner tastes like, huh?” He drops Michael’s hand.

Michael glares back at him, fists itching under his gloves. He makes himself turn away, shoving the anger down to where it will do him some good. He gets back to the sidelines just as the rest of the team getting ready to head for the field.

“MICHAEL!” a voice calls.

Michael’s head snaps towards the voice, because no, that can’t be right. He’s just hearing things wrong.

“MICHAEL! HERE!” it calls again.

He sees him, up against the railing, waving to get his attention. He can’t help staring. 

“Dad?”

“Come here!” his father calls firmly.

The team is starting to head out but he doesn’t have much choice. Michael hurries to the edge of the bleachers. He still can’t believe it but it’s his dad, no mistake, practiced misery and disregard carved into his expression. He’s still wearing a suit and tie, face looking weirdly old under the bright lights of the field. There’s someone with him.

“Michael, this is Roger Johnson, from the Dartmouth advisory board, I mentioned him to you. He’ll be here for the game and dinner at home after.”

“Yeah,” Michael manages, reaching out a hand, “good to meet you, sir.”

The man takes his hand. He’s taller and bladder than his dad but he has the same hardened classically masculine look as his father, the kind of look they cast in bladder disfunction commercials to reassure their audience that manly men have your problems too. 

“Good to meet you, Michael, I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll be sure to keep a close eye on things. Dartmouth has a historic football program, I’m sure they’d be interested in any fresh talent.” The man winks at him.

“TOWNLEY!” coach’s voice roars behind him.

“I’m sorry, I should—“ Michael starts.

“Go,” his father nods. “We’ll see you after.”

He turns back, running to the field. “LET’S GO!” he roars to the team, leading them out onto to green.

Michael’s stomach suddenly feels tighter than it had moments ago. His dad came. He actually fucking came. Why the hell did he have to come? But isn’t this what he wanted? A chance to show off for a scout - and hey, he gets to show his dad just what he’s missing all at once. Maybe it’s not too bad.

He just has to not suck. That’s all. No pressure. 

The silver and blue spandex closes in around him, all hot breathe and tense nerves. It’s a quick huddle, they’ve been over the game plan for this one at least twenty times over the past week. They know the drill. They break to a fresh roar of noise from the crowd. 

Michael can feel Haines eyes on him as he lines up for the play. He doesn’t look back.

The crowd behind them quiets to a lower roar, ready for the action to unfold. Michael let’s it sit for a moment, lets that tension hold, before counting down the play. The balls snaps into his gloved hands, and he slides it aside, passing right off to Coopers. 

He hears a clean smack in front. He turns. Jackson’s plowed to the ground and Haines crashes straight into him. It’s so unexpected, so fucking ridiculous that Michael isn’t even braced. He smashes back on the turf hard enough to loose his wind, shoulder twisting awkwardly after him. 

Michael blinks on the ground, gritting his teeth as he tries to focus on twisting his shoulder back where it should be. Someone’s pulling Haines off again. He thinks he hears Ramirez’s voice.

“What the fuck man, he isn’t even on the play!”

“I thought he had it.”

“Bullshit!” 

“REF!”

There’s no response. 

Michael’s pulled back to his feet. He twists his shoulder gingerly, it’s off, but fuck it, he’s not going to let that slow him down. 

He glares across the field. Haines is running back to the line, a smug expression smeared across his face. Michael gazes towards the crowd. The cheerleaders aren’t looking at them, their facing the bleachers chanting for all their worth. He can see Amanda’s ponytail bobbing against the back of her head. He can’t see his dad in the crowd. He’s not sure where they ended up sitting. It doesn’t matter does it. He can imagine his expression easily enough.

The first half of the game goes about as well as the first thirty seconds. He manages to get a few good throws in but each one tweaks his shoulder with a sharp jab under the skin. He slips past for two touch-downs on his own, but every pass, every play, Haines is on him like a fucking stain. He’s playing it smart, hitting Coopers and Jackson every other play, but then he’s right back on him, hitting harder than he hits any of the others: a shoulder to his ribs, helmet right into his chest, stepping on his calf on the way back up. There’s a few fouls, as many as can be expected, but it’s starting to wear on him. He wouldn’t normally mind some jackass getting a few mean hits in, but this, it’s starting to make him look like a serious piece of shit. His good throws are off his usual count, including a few real wounded ducks where his shoulder spasms at the last minute. The rest of them try to hold it up as well as they can but when the ref blows halftime they’re ten points down. 

Michaels fuming, ripping his helmet off and storming from the field. He waits until he’s out of Haines’ eyeshot before letting out a frustrated roar, chucking his helmet all the way down the hall, and _fuck_ , it doesn’t do his shoulder any favors.

The locker room’s packed with the smell of sweat and frustration.

“It’s a strong defense,” coach calls out, pulling the group back around the sound of his voice.

“Yeah, no shit,” Coopers swears.

“Watch it Coopers!” coach snaps. “Enough complaints. It’s strong. So we bust through it. Ramirez, keep riding that Haines, try to cut Michael some slack, huh?” 

“I am fucking trying,” Ramirez snaps, “he won’t let up!”

“Then use it. Michael, let the others carry this one.”

Michael snaps his head up. “What?”

“You heard me. He’s got it in for you, we’re not letting that bring us all down.”

Michael opens his mouth but what the hell is he going to say? _”Sorry coach, but my dad is out there and I should probably prove to the bastard that I’m not a complete failure.”_

“Anyways, that shoulder seems off, Townley - you alright?”

“Fine,” Michael snaps. “It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” Jackson mutters.

“I said it’s fucking nothing.”

“If it’s off Townley, it’s not worth wasting it on this game. Let the rest of the team carry this one, save it for later.”

_And what if there is no later?_ He doesn’t say it, letting the rage broil under his skin instead. He imagines grabbing Haines’ head in that parking lot, driving his knee right into his skull, tightening his fingers around his neck under his his face turns all sorts of fascinating colors.

“You sure you don’t want to sit this one out man?” Ramirez asks him.

Michael glares in his direction, expression hard as steel.

Ramirez turns back. “Fuck me fine, fine.”

“Keep working their right side Coopers, and Jackson keep running them out. Alright. Now come on - didn’t come this far just to let some hotheads who think they own our goddamn field kick us down, huh? Let’s go! Go!”

They burst out onto the field again, the bright of the lights shattering down on them in front of a sky still heavy with barely restrained storms. The crowd hasn’t lost any gusto with the down score, if anything the cheers are louder, even more frantic and chaotic. The girls must have done a good job because the crowd is still chanting something that sounds organized, back and forth, back and forth. Michael scans the field quickly. He can see the other team pouring in, Haines in the front, helmet obscuring his face. He gives Michael a thumbs up. Michael looks away with a grit of his teeth. Amanda catches his eye. She smiles weakly. He can’t make himself smile back.

He tries to press the rage down and away, but it’s pretty fucking hard to stop imagining smashing Haines’ skull against the side of those bleachers over and over and over. He shoves his helmet into place, moving towards the first play.

He can feel Haines' eyes on him, unflinching, taunting, the look crawling under his skin and itching like insects. Michael tries to focus on the play, watching Jackson get ready on his line. He calls out the commands, sharp and firm. The second the ball is in his hands it’s out of them again. Let the others carry. Fine. Fine. He breaks to the left hard, stepping away from the play, easing back. He fixes his eyes on Coopers, moving to Jackson and further up the field. There’s no sign of Haines amongst the pressing bodies. Their defense is falling behind. They’re going to break free any second. They’re going to score. Them. Not him. Again. And god that shouldn’t make him feel as sick as it does. 

Suddenly their defense tightens. Coopers hesitates. The lines’ shut. He won’t be able to make it through. Jackson’s too far. And shit. He’s the one who’s free. He has to do something fast. If they push them back again… 

Michael feels his voice swell without permission. “COOPERS—“

Haines hits him so hard he flies six feet before smashing into the ground. 

Haines falls right along with him, elbow digging hard into his gut. Michael swears, shoving at him as hard as he can. “FUCK YOU! - Get the hell off!”

Haines just shifts his weight, pressing him down further. “What’s that, Townley?”

“GET THE FUCK OFF!”

“Yeah, sure, no problem,” Haines grins. He puts the ball on his hand right on Michael’s shoulder, under the armor, and lifts himself up, shoving down with his full weight. The pain explodes. Michael yells aloud, curling in on himself as Haines bounces to his feet again. 

Michael squeezes a hand into his shoulder, grinding his teeth hard. Suck it up. Shut up. Get up. Behind him he can hear the yells of half the stadium, half his team arguing across the field where the other play was going down.

“He didn’t even have the damn ball! Ref!” Jackson shouts.

“It’s already called! You’ve got your foul number seven, step back!”

“What foul? He was ready for the pass!” someone from the other team.

Michael makes himself stand. Haines only a few feet away, so much closer than the rest of them. He’s staring right back at him, deaf to the chaos all around them. A slick smile spreads across his face. “How’s that shoulder champ?”

That’s all it takes.

Things go quiet. Slow, distant. Michael’s hands shift, knuckles curling in. Tight and hard. He starts to move. Towards him. For him. All he can see is Haines smug fucking face and he’s going to wipe it clean.

Somewhere else a voice is shifting. “What the hell’s that?”

Haines’ turns to look in another direction, brow furrowing in surprise. Michael takes his last step, tightens his fist. Haines flies away from him, smashed to the ground in a blur. 

Time snaps back. Michael blinks, staring at where Haines’ smug face had been just a second ago. The teams are scattering suddenly, whistles blowing, cries and shock and confusion rippling out all across the field. Michael looks. There’s someone on top of Haines, someone who bowled him down, someone not in a uniform, someone in a ratty tank top with a shitty haircut and Michael can’t see his face but suddenly his stomach is flipping backwards under his skin.

Trevor shoves Haines down tight into the turf with one hand hard on his chest. Haines is kicking at him, trying to swing up, get him off. The rest of his team is running in fast, still further across the field where the play had been going down before all this.

Haines gets a good swing, catching Trevor once across the face but Trevor hardly budges, focus sharp and intent. His bony fingers scramble, suddenly ripping off Haines’ helmet. He pulls it back like a fucking hammer and fear suddenly explodes behind Haines’ eyes. “HEY - NO! WAIT, HEY—“

Trevor swings. 

Haines’ nose cracks with a sound that goes right through Michael’s limbs. He cries out, hand scrambling to his face, blood quickly staining the white gloves of his uniform. A ref grabs Trevor’s shoulder hard, pulling him back, off. Trevor snarls, spinning a sharp punch right into the ref’s face. The ref staggers back. Trevor lands two sharp kicks right into Haines’ gut before the rest of the teams close in around them. He books it, spindly legs sprinting full speed across the field and away before any of the other players can catch him. 

Michael stares at the pile of Haines curled up on the turf. His blood soak steady down from the neck of his jersey, muted whimpers dragging out of him as he curls around the pain in his ribs.

Slowly, Michael’s fist uncurls.

It takes a little while for things to sort out again. Haines is helped off by most of his team where Michael’s gets the satisfaction of watching a medic shoving tampons up his nostril on the sidelines before he’s carried off the field for good by the EMTs. The ref Trevor hit doesn’t seem too badly off after all, and the game starts up again in fifteen minutes, beginning with their earned penalty kick. Which they make.

With Haines off the field the game shifts instantly. The team is disconnected. Michael’s freed up. His shoulder still stings but without the distraction of Haines he’s able to run more up the field and make touchdowns himself instead of just hurling those long passes. And it probably helps that their opponents keep glancing at the sidelines, waiting for greasy lunatics to launch out of the stands and land them on the sidelines with tampons up their nose as well.

The score evens by the third quarter. By the forth they’re up by five, and when they final whistle blows, they’ve won by ten.

The crowd is an ocean of screams and cheers as they run off the field. Before they vanish Michael lets himself glance once more in Haines’ direction. Funny. The other captain doesn’t seem nearly as ready to meet his eye now. Michael grins and darts down into the familiar smell of the locker rooms. 

The air is filled with sweat and cheers, echoing with “TWO MORE GAMES, TWO MORE GAMES”. Michael’s still beaming by the time he’s changed, running a towel through his hair before chucking it in the bin, sitting down next to Ramirez and Jackson on the bench.

“How’s that shoulder, Mike?” Ramirez asks.

Michael twists it with a grin. “Better now.”

“Yeah. I bet,” Jackson says. He doesn’t sound happy.

Michael frowns eyeing him. He’s not looking back at them, staring numbly out across the floor instead.

“What’s your problem?” Michael asks.

Jackson turns to him. “You seriously have to ask me that?”

“Yeah - guess so. Jesus, how can you be moping? We cleaned up!”

Jackson glares back at him. “ _Someone_ cleaned up. _We_ could have won fair. But that freak saw to that, didn’t he.”

“Won fair?” Michael stares. “What the hell are you talking about. We did win fucking fair.”

“That Haines was the one starting shit,” Ramirez adds. “It’s his own fault, getting a taste of his own medicine.”

“Whatever,” Jackson shakes his head, brow darkened, “I just don’t feel like celebrating watching a dude get his face smashed in by his own helmet.”

“What are you saying?” Michaels starts defensively.

“I’m saying you could have done something, Michael. You _watched_ that kid break Haines’ face in half. You were five feet away, and you didn’t do jack-shit.”

“So what?” Michael snaps back.

Jackson holds his stare. “So nothing man. So nothing.” He stands up with a sigh, moving towards the door. “That’s just not how I want to win this thing.”

Michael watches him leave. 

“Fuck him, huh?” Ramirez snorts, putting a hand on Michael’s good shoulder as he stands. “Who the hell cares? Haines’ is a jackass. Not like you _told_ that freak to charge the field. Fucking punk. We won, though. That’s what matters. Would have won anyways. Right?”

Michael stares across the locker room. “Right. Yeah.”

“What’s with that kid anyways? Is he stalking you or what?”

Michael’s attention snaps. “The fuck are you talking about?”

“Nothing, just,” Ramirez shrugs, “he’s always around when you’re around. It’s kinda weird.”

“He’s not. It’s nothing.” Michael stands, snatching his bag off the floor.

“We gonna hang out? Celebrate? Amanda and the girls are probably waiting by the bleachers already.”

“No,” Michael mutters.

“What? Fuck that ‘no’. Why not?”

Michael tries to focus. “My dad - he brought someone to the game. I have to meet them back at the house, for dinner.” 

“Bummer. Well, see yah then.”

“Yeah.”

It’s a strange drive back to the house. He can’t seem to settle it right in his head. The energy of the game, all those cheers and screams still buzzing under his skin. The crack of that helmet against Haines’ face. Jackson’s expression. Disappointment. Actual fucking disappointment. And who the hell is he anyways? Haines was asking for it. It’s not like Michael had anything to do with it. But that has been just what he wanted to do, hadn’t it? He’d been about take a swing himself and then Trevor was just… there. Trevor. _”That freak”_. And what did that make him?

The dining room doesn’t feel as hollow with a fourth person there, someone to laugh back and forth with his father and compliment the his mother on the meal she didn’t cook and ask Michael questions like he almost cares what the answers are.

“Well, Johnson, I hope you enjoyed yourself,” Michael’s father chimes swirling his bourbon in his hand. 

“It was quite a game. Glad to see you pull through in the end,” Johnson smiles to Michael.

“It was a good game,” Michael adds lamely, but he can’t really make himself do much better, his head’s still in about four different places at once. “Just that much closer to the championships now.”

“I’ll be excited to speak to the athletics department my next trip out to Big Green. I’m sure they’ll be interested to hear about you.”

“I appreciate that,” Michael says.

“When’s that, Johnson?” his father asks.

“Oh,” he shrugs, “a few weeks likely.”

“Did you have fun, Michael?” his mother asks.

Michael looks up. “What?”

She stares back at him, a weak smile on her lips, but eyes focused and kind on his own. “Did you have fun - at the game?”

Michael’s father snorts at the head of the table. Michael swallows.

“Yeah. Yeah, mom. It was great.”

“How’s your face feeling? It looks sore.”

“Ah, yeah,” Michael feels his face heat up, running a hand idly over where he knows his cheek is still hanging onto some plummy colors. “Yeah, it’s fine mom.”

“Get that during a game?” Johnson asks.

“That’s right. It looks worse than it is,” Michael answers.

“Looks a damn sight better than that boy from the other team will be looking after tonight,” Johnson notes.

“Oh no. What happened?” his mother asks.

“Some lunatic charged the field and took out one of the players,” Michael’s father answers.

“What? My word that sounds awful, how did that happen?”

“Must be a fan,” Johnson grins at Michael. Michael’s stomach sinks. 

“Will the boy be alright?”

“He’ll be fine,” Michael answers bluntly.

“Don’t know about that. But it certainly did you a favor,” Michaels’ father says.

Michael turns in his direction. “What does that mean?”

“Well, he was obviously their best player. Certainly was holding their defensive line. Things seemed to go much better for all of you once he was off the field.”

“We were doing fine before,” Michael returns, trying to keep his voice level.

His father gazes back at him. “If you call losing fine.”

“Well, it certainly was exciting,” Johnson breaks in. “I wonder if they’ll find whomever that was. Did you know, Michael?”

Michael stares down at his plate. He’s hardly touched it. “No.”

“Ah, well, yes. I suppose you wouldn’t, would you.”

Outside thunder rolls out of the heavy sky. Distant but ominous all the same.

“Maybe it finally will rain,” his mother says quietly, gazing out the window.

“Wish it would just make up it’s damn mind,” his father echoes, following her gaze. “I’m getting tired of it just sitting there glowering.”

Eventually dinner folds to an orderly conclusion. His father and Johnson head off to watch TV in the living room, golf, or something along those lines. His mother wafts up to her room unnoticed. Michael follows suit. He never could just stand around that house alone. It always felt like being watched, by anything and everything: the chairs, the paintings on the wall, the perfect white of the sofa, everything watching him like he didn’t belong there and they were all aware of it.

Sleep doesn’t prove any easier. 

He rolls to one side. The thunder echoes outside the window, closer each time. Michael starts counting the time between each rumble. There’s little else to do. His brain won’t seem to wind down. The rest of the house fell quite hours ago. It must be late. Outside the streetlights spill their cold white luminance over the backyard, the black road, everything sitting still against the growing heat of the night. Waiting. Watching.

Another rumble.

Michael closes his eyes. One. Two. Three. 

He sees the panic in Haines’ eyes. Trevor’s fingers tightening on the helmet. The ref staggering back with a shocked hand to his face. 

His stomach feels heavier than it should under his skin. He tightens his eyes.

Four. Five. Six. Another rumble rolls through the entire house.

It’s closer than any of the others. He can almost feel it under his fingers. 

He opens his eyes to the ceiling. “Fucking rain already!”

His voice sounds strange alone in his room. He regrets it instantly, rolling over and trying to shove sleep into place. He has to sleep. There’s no reason he shouldn’t be sleeping. It doesn’t matter. None of it, none of this fucking matters.

Something hits his window.

Michael opens his eyes, staring across the room. Nah. That can’t be right. Just one of those house-sounds. Or maybe not. Maybe the rain’s actually listening to hi.

There it is again. Definitely the window. 

He sits up. The noise comes again. Something’s hitting the glass. He gets up, crossing the room and opening the window. The heat floods in instantly, dry and heavy, potent under the dark of the sky. He can almost smell the rain.

He looks down. There’s rocks on the roof under his window. Someone’s standing in the backyard. In his backyard. Someone thin, with a lopsided posture. He’s sitting on the railing of the porch, legs swinging idly back and forth.

“Hey,” he calls up. 

Michael stares. He tries not to yell. He can’t yell. That wouldn’t help. 

“What the _fuck_?” he hisses. “What the fuck _are you doing_?”

“Jeez-usss,” Trevor slurs. Drunk. Obviously. Perfect. Fucking perfect. “Just wanted to say hhee-yyy.” He doesn’t seem to be nearly as concerned as Michael is about the volume of his voice.

“Shh-hhhh! jesus christ,” Michael whispers back, “shut the fuck up, please, _christ_ , just… go away! Get off of my lawn and stop throwing things and _please_ , jesus.”

Trevor’s quiet for a moment. Then: “What’d yah say?” Normal volume. Normal fucking volume.

“I said,” Michael growls, “get - out - of - _here_!”

Trevor stares right back at him, unflincing. “Sorry, can’t hear. Better come down here. Tell me your-fucking-self.”

“I _am_ telling you my-fucking-self!”

“What!” Trevor calls.

“Fuck! Shit! _Okay_ , shit!” Michael turns back to the room. He grabs a t-shirt off the floor, pulling it on for more than just boxers. He moves down the stairs and through the house as quietly as he can. Not that it matters. They probably didn’t hear. Nothing can probably penetrate that much booze or prescription narcotics.

He slides open the glass door to the backyard, stepping back out into the heat. Trevor hops off the porch, just managing not to fall right onto his face. Michael crosses to him in a few furious steps.

“What the _fuck_!”

“What the fuck yourself,” Trevor shoots. “Hey, hey-hey look— look, I brought you one of _your_ fuckin’ brewskis, since you didn’t come get it your-damn-self.” He waves the bottle in Michael’s face.

“Jesus!” Michael grabs his arm, pulling him across the lawn, further away from the house, behind the pool-shed where it’s girth might at least help muffle the volume of Trevor’s voice. 

“What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?” Michael snarls at him. “You show up _here_ , in the middle of the fucking night—“

“One AM,” Trevor corrects idly.

“ _In the middle of the night_ ,” Michael repeats, “with _beer_? Throwing rocks at my fucking window? Yelling in my backyard? What the hell do you think my folks would do if they found you out here?”

Trevor shrugs. “Not much.”

Michael feels his gut twist. “What the fuck do you know.”

“I know you didn’ say _thank you_ ,” Trevor snaps back. “Here I am, waaaitin’ and drinnnkin’ and not a visit, not a fucking _call_. I put plenty of beer in the fridge, nice and frosty, but _someone_ doesn’t seem to have the _time_ or the fucking _balls_ to show up and say a simple _’thank you, Trevor’_ —“

“What the hell do I have to thank you for?”

Overhead the thunder growls. It’s getting closer.

Trevor blinks back at him, something under his eyes shifting between hurt and rage. There’s a cut on his brow that wasn’t there before, and the skin around it looks swollen and red, must be from where Haines got him.

“ _I_ ,” Trevor shoves back, poking Michael’s chest with one finger, “fucking saved you out there.”

Michael laughs. He can’t help it. Trevor’s look darkens instantly. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Michael scoffs. “You _’saved’_ me? Where the fuck does that come from? You think smashing some asshole’s face in, charging the field like a damn maniac, does me any favors at all?”

“Yes. Because: I fucking saved you.” Trevor’s teeth are knit tight together, making his words more snarl than anything else.

“ _How?_ How the hell did you _save me_? I can’t take care of myself? You have to come running to some damn illusion of a rescue? Well, let me tell you something,” Michael shoves a finger right back into Trevor’s chest. “ _I_ can take care of myself. So don’t you ever, _ever_ do anything like that again. Do you hear me?”

Trevor doesn’t back off. He steps forward. “That’s just the point, ’sn’t it. You were gonna take care of yourself. Idiot. Fucking idiot.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You were going to _hit him_. Wipe that smug fucker’s smile right off his face—”

“So what if I was?”

“They’d kick you off, right?” Trevor asks, voice quieter, amber eyes peering back at his. “You said - the other night - they’d kick you off the team.”

Michael feels his stomach twist under him. But it’s too late now. He’s too far deep in the anger and the confusion and all the fucking rest of it. “What the hell were you even doing there tonight?”

“Jesus _chri-ist_ ,” Trevor groans, rolling his head back.

“What? Suddenly you give a fuck? Suddenly you’re a big team hero, saving the fucking day, huh?”

“Fuck you, Michael,” Trevor snaps back. “Fuck you!”

Michael steps closer, glaring back. “You shouldn’t have done that, T. You really shouldn’t have fucking done that.”

“You don’t get to tell me what the fuck I get to do!” 

“Yes. I fucking do.” Something wet hits his face. His shoulder. The damn rain. “You _don’t_ get to show up at the game. You _don’t_ get to show up at my house in the middle of the night, throwing stones at my goddamn window, thinking everything is perfect - everything is fucking fine. You _don’t_ get to follow me. You _don’t_ get to show up wherever the hell I am. Making people ask me where the fuck you came from, why the hell you’re everywhere I end up, like some fucking shadow I can’t get away from!” The rain is getting harder. He can feel it sticking to his shirt, see it against Trevor’s furious face. “You _don’t_ get to think you have any right to _’save’_ me. From that, from them, from this, from my fucking self! From fucking _anything_!” His voice is getting louder and he can’t seem to make it stop. “You _don’t_ get the think you have the right! And you don’t get to make me stay up all fucking night, staring at my ceiling, wondering what the hell is wrong with me, and where the fuck you are, and why I can’t stop thinking about that and you don’t—“

Trevor kisses him.

Panic, pure gut-clenching panic washes over him in one furious moment, hard as the rain. It happens so fast Michael doesn’t have a chance to breath. He tries to step back, tries to understand what the hell is happening, but Trevor’s mouth opens warm, mindless, furious against his, and maybe it’s not the panic that’s setting him on fire.

He’s kissing him back. How is he kissing him back?

He snatches Trevor’s waist sharply, lifting him, turning him to collide hard against the wall of the pool-house. Trevor’s hands haven’t left his face since he started, gripping his jaw, fingers slipping wet against his skin as the rain pours down all around them. He pushes closer. And god he wants to be close. Too close - like he’s trying to crawl right the fuck inside him, and that drops Michael’s jaw open, shoving him over that edge even harder. 

Trevor tastes like cheap beer and rain and sweat. Michael closes his eyes as hard as he can, hard enough that it hurts, his hands sliding up Trevor’s waist, feeling slick skin just under the heavy damp of that shirt. Trevor’s hands tighten, nails harsh against Michael’s bruised cheek. He catches Michael’s lip in his teeth and suddenly nips down. Michael jerks back with a hiss, breaking the kiss with the taste of cooper taste tainting his tongue.

He tries to catch himself, think, focus. His forehead leans against Trevor’s, watching his chest rise and fall. “Fuck,” he gasps into the space between them. He closes his eyes. “Fuck.”

Michael pulls back all at once. 

He doesn’t let himself hesitate, doesn’t let himself look back as he runs around the pool-house, back across the lawn. Trevor doesn’t follow him. Trevor doesn’t call after him. He didn’t even hold onto him when he pulled away. 

Michael shoves the glass door open, dripping water all across the floor as he hurries back up the stairs. He strips the second he’s back in his room, chucking the soaked clothes into a corner, shoving himself back into bed. He slams his eyes shut. He’s not thinking. Not for a second. Not at all. 

The rain drills against the roof overhead, furious and heavy. Michael rolls to one side, shoving his pillow over his head. But it doesn’t help. The sound of the rain plummets through all the same.


	7. Chapter 7

He doesn’t know who’s brilliant idea it was to play the Jaws theme every-time he entered a class, but it’s getting old _real_ fast. The entire school is decked in the team’s colors, and it’s not just the buildings and the grounds: girl’s are wearing themed ties in their hair, guys are sporting jerseys and caps and all the rest of it, everyone draped wherever they can find an excuse in white and blue. 

He heads out of trigonometry a few minute after the bell, trying to keep his head down, not that it does much good. He can’t seem to get from one class to the next these days without at least three chants ringing in his ears and even more supportive slaps on the shoulder or offered high-fives in passing. With a few minutes he’s crossed into the sun of the courtyard. The rain didn’t last long, gone as quickly as it came, leaving only what soaked deep into the surface, pushing everything back out a little brighter than before it came. 

“Hey! Michael!” He turns. Christie, Blake, and Ramirez are heading his way. They catch up soon enough, everyone of them beaming. 

“Not bad, huh?” Ramirez asks.

“What’s that?”

“Being superstars,” Blake grins. “I haven’t carried my own shit once today.”

“Yeah,” Michael concedes with a weak smile. “Not too bad.”

“Wonder what will happen if we actually _win_ the Championships,” Christie notes.

“They’ll forget all about it two weeks later,” Michael answers.

“Oh yeah, very optimistic,” Blake rolls her eyes. “Hey, have you seen Amanda? She said she didn’t know if you’d be around today. Since you’ve been sick or whatever.”

“No,” he answers shortly. He shouldn’t be avoiding her. It isn’t making things any easier. Hell, seeing her might actually clear everything up for once, but he can’t get there, not yet. Maybe he’s too afraid of exactly clearing everything up for once would end up looking like. “I’m going to catch up with her later.”

“Where have you been man?” Ramirez asks. “Stuff’s still going pretty hot around here, but you should have seen things right after the game. People were going nuts. Where were you anyway, you were sick or something?”

“Just didn’t feel like class,” Michael answers. It was just a few days, christ. Just a few days of avoiding anything and everyone, what the hell’s wrong with that?

“Yeah, I hear that,” Ramirez agrees. “Coming to practice today though, yeah?”

“Yeah, ‘course.”

“Good.”

“You’re not the only one who hasn’t been around you know,” Blake says with a leering tone.

“What?” Michael asks.

“That punk hasn’t shown his face since he charged the field,” Ramirez notes, “not that that’s a fucking surprise.”

“Nah,” Michael gazes across the courtyard. “Guess not.”

“Not that anyone’s going to do anything,” Blake says.

“Are you kidding? Of course they’ll do something. He’s got to be suspended at least,” Christie says.

“Yeah, suspended,” Michael holds onto that thought. “That would make sense.”

Maybe he was suspended. Maybe the two days he’s spent avoiding campus weren’t necessary after all. Maybe this is the last place he’d shown up. Or maybe Michael had known that, maybe he’s been hanging around his house because part of him wondered if Trevor would show up again. Maybe he’d been listening for that cliche sound of rocks on the window.

Part of him is still wondering if that night even happened at all. It seems like something out of some crazy dream - Trevor in the backyard, a sliver of a silhouette against the streetlamp light with thunder rolling overhead. Those broken-bottle eyes staring back at him behind the pool house, hurt burning into fury. The rain, cracking out of the sky like something goddamn mythic. That kiss. That was the most impossible part of any of it. It was just like a damn dream, thoughtless and lost: his mouth wet from the rain, all demand and need and heat, the feeling of fingers hard against him, dull nails tightening on his jaw, his own hands catching against a sharp waist.

Just like a dream. Who’s to say it wasn’t. Just some crazy horny dream. But god, did that make it better? Waking up hard as hell after dreaming about slamming that skinny body back against a wall, grinding up into bony hips with teeth on his lip. And fuck he really _really_ needs to stop thinking about any and all of this right fucking now. 

The bell rings overhead. 

“Alright man, see you later then?” Ramirez asks. 

“How’s Haines?” Michael asks.

“What? Oh I heard he’s fine. Broken nose. Nothing that dramatic.”

“He’s still playing?”

“Not yet man, but hell soon probably.”

“See you later, Michael!” Christie calls.

“Yeah,” Michael swallows, “yeah, see yah.”

The group parts ways, dragging off in different directions. He turns across the sunlit courtyard for the the rest of the errant students, heading past the shouts in his direction towards class. Michael gets up the first two flights of stairs before stopping, staring at the door to the classroom just down the hall. 

He can see the lettering on the door from here: “23B Ms. Jenkins”. Other kids move past him in the hall, filtering into their own classes, closing and opening doors and lockers with familiar sounds. Michael stays where he is, leaning against the nearest wall, gazing at the door. He sees a few other students go in. Suspended. That only makes sense. He doesn’t see him. But that doesn’t mean anything does it? He could be in there already. If he’s even there at all. A suspension really does make sense.

Michael swallows. The number of people in the hall starts to thin, just a few stragglers left meandering into the classroom doors, sound hollowing to the few stray noises scuttling down the hall. 

Fuck it. He doesn’t need it. Why bother?

Michael turns in the opposite direction, hurrying back towards the stairs. 

It’s just one class. It doesn’t matter. He can miss one class. He turns around the bottom of the stairs, heading back into the strength of the sunlight with a sharp blink.

“Cuttin’ class?” a voice calls out after him. 

He should keep walking. He should just keep walking straight across the courtyard and not look back. That’s the smart thing to do. 

But he’s never been all that smart. Not all of him. And there’s something about that voice, like a hook, slipping in under the skin and not letting go.

Michael turns. 

Trevor’s sitting on the half wall that borders the courtyard, leaning against a cement support column. It’s shaded in there, looking even darker against the brightness of where Michael’s still standing in the full sun of the courtyard. 

For a moment he just looks back at him. Trevor doesn’t say a thing, legs swinging lightly back and forth. He holds his gaze, calm and still, nothing but sunlight and space between them.

There’s a few people still in the courtyard, easing through on free periods or hurrying past already late to class. Their voices catch in the air with the sound of the banner overhead knocking slightly in the light breeze. 

“How’s your face?” Michael hears himself ask.

Trevor swings up off the wall, walking a few steps to lean against the closer column. “Just dandy.”

Michael finds himself stepping closer. The sun’s too strong anyways - it feel better as the shade falls over him. He narrows his eyes back at Trevor critically. The cut on his eyebrow’s sealed but still looks messy, skin around it purpled and a bit green in places.

“Yeah,” Michael feels himself starting to smile. “Looks just dandy. Haines is going to be alright, by the way. If you care.”

“I really, _really_ , don’t.”

Trevor leans back against the column, tilting his head the side, stretching the muscles on the right side of his neck. He peers back at Michael curiously, lazily, as if he has no idea what’s going to happen, and right now, just in this moment, doesn’t exactly care. That’s about right though, isn’t it - he doesn’t what’s going to happen either. And he’s not sure he cares.

“Shouldn’t you be someplace, you know, not here?” Michael asks.

“Why’s that?”

“Heard you got suspended.”

Trevor shrugs. “Just for a week. Doesn’t matter. I’m not in class, am I?”

He holds his look. Trevor’s taller, but with the way he’s slouching against the wall they’re just about the same height. 

Michael shouldn’t be here. He should be half way across the courtyard or back up in class bored out his mind. He shouldn’t be letting himself look at him, _really_ look at him. The angle of his shoulders and the way his uneven eyebrows hook when he smiles, and how his hips tilt to one side, but christ he can’t help it. That’s the thing about Trevor, isn’t it? He makes everything seem easy - makes everything seem just so clear, and for a moment you let yourself believe life really is just that simple.

“What are you doing here, Trev?” his voice feels a little off, lower than it should be.

“Got bored.” Trevor’s broken lip drags into a smile. “Jacking it at home is only riveting for so long.”

Something behind Michael’s gut gives a twist, a heavy something sinking lower, deeper. He can’t stop looking at his mouth, at that lip, at the way he won’t stop smiling like he knows exactly what he’s doing and fuck him if it isn’t working just the way he wants it to.

Trevor’s boot slides forward, just slipping into the space between Michael’s sneakers. He watches it with mild interest, like it happened all on it’s own. 

“You know,” he drawls, letting a thumb hook on his belt and his long fingers trail, curling downward. “You sure know how to leave a guy hanging.” 

Michael looks back at him. His mouth feels dry. “You didn’t follow me.”

Trevor’s eyes are heavy, but there’s something else as well, something almost afraid. “Didn’t know you wanted me to.”

Simple. He makes everything so goddamn simple.

Michael snatches his shoulder, turning him off the column and pushing him down the corridor harder than he meant. Trevor takes a stumble pace with a jagged laugh. “Whoa, hey there officer, no need to get handsy, huh?”

“Just fucking walk,” Michael grits, giving him another shove. Trevor’s hand snakes nimbly behind his back, knuckles grazing Michael’s now undeniable erection though his jeans and he just manages not spin him around right there and force him back into the nearest wall. 

The corridor splits. There’s a door to the left, the neat “MENS” print staring back at them. Michael gives him a push and Trevor easily shoves through to the cooler air inside. The door swings shut behind them, Michael moves to turn the corner and glance for any other occupants but Trevor’s hands catch his collar first, spinning him and slamming him right back against the door. He opens his mouth right on the line of Michaels’ neck.

Michael just manages to grit back a groan, sneakers scuffing on the floor as he half-heartedly tries to push him off. “For fuck-sake, someone could be in here—“

“ANYONE FUCKING IN HERE?” Trevor roars, hands sliding under the grey of Michael’s shirt at his waist.

There’s no answer.

“Subtle,” Michael growls.

“Your modesty’s fucking preserved.” Trevor’s hands are crawling against his waist, sliding all too easily up and under and spreading wide, thumbs dragging to trace the lower lines of Michael’s ribs, and _god_ that combined with the way he’s mouthing at the bend in his neck—

“Hey— cut it out,” Michael manages, panic swirling in a confused way with the lust clambering up his gut. “You’re going to give me a fucking hickey.”

He feels Trevor smile then bite down into the muscle on the bottom of his neck far too goddamn hard.

Michael snarls, locking a hand in Trevor’s hair and pulling his head back to a few inches from his own. He can taste the heat of his own breath between them. “Watch it.”

“What?” Trevor hums. “Not what you’re after? Must have gotten the message wrong when you shoved me into a men’s room.” He shifts his weight cleverly, bringing his thigh tight between Michael’s leg, grinding the muscle of it up in one motion.

“Fuck—!” Michael’s head falls back against the door. His hand scrambling at the door handle just to his right. No lock. Perfect. “Goddamn it.”

“What’s that?” Trevor breathes, grinding his leg again. Michael’s voice breaks into a jagged moan. He can’t stop from bucking back, one hand snatching Trevor behind the neck and tugging his mouth back to his own.

Michael kisses him as hard as he fucking dares, shoving back to match the force Trevor’s using to hold him against the bathroom door. He lets his tongue press in deep and insistent and Trevor melts open, his own hips starting to rock mindlessly, desperate for any friction. Michael finds one of his own hands sliding down to the small of his back, rucking up his shirt, gripping to a hip to feel the pace his body’s desperate to set, and hell he’s too far gone on this already. 

His tongue darts out, tracing the broken line on Trevor’s lip. He can’t help letting out a satisfied hum. 

He feels Trevor smile. “You’ve been wanting to do that.”

“Damn fucking right.“ He’s too far gone to hold any pretense, lost on the taunting raw feeling of his hard cock against the line of Trevor’s leg, the mindless heat building low in his stomach turning everything to touch and grind and taste. 

The door gives a shove behind them. Michael’s heart jumps up his throat right as his cock jumps.

“FUCK OFF!” Trevor roars through gritted teeth, pushing Michael back hard to shut it again. The shoving stops very quickly. 

“Shit, shit,” Michael swears. Trevor’s pace doesn’t slow, doesn’t even flicker. Michael’s hand slides down, snatching at his ass and hefting him closer. He can’t slow this down now, hell the fucking principal could shove his way through that door behind them and he’s not sure he could stop.

Trevor hitches his hips, angle shifting with a new shock of pressure.

Michael’s hand tightens hard against him with a dragged groan. “God _damn_ , T shit— I’m—“

Trevor huffs something wordless against his throat and suddenly his hands are hard on Michael’s hips, spinning him, shoving his chest against the door. Michael just manages to catch himself, bracing his forearms on the cool metal and bucking his hips back into Trevor’s. Trevor catches them hungrily, the line of his cock firm and undeniable against Michael’s ass as he pushes close, breath all huffs and lost grunts against the back of Michael’s neck. One of his arms wraps up under Michael’s gripping his shoulder from the front, leveraging him back into the rhythm of his own canting hips. And his other hand, his other hand is sliding around his hips and—

“Christ—!” Michael bites a moan into the fold of his own arm, thrusts staggering into the grip of Trevor’s palm over the weight of his cock behind his jeans. Trevor’s hand pushing tight against him, keeping the jagged punishing rhythm behind him, and fuck he’s not lasting now, no fucking chance.

Michael braces against the door, jerking into his grip, erratic, frantic. He gasps, eyes flying open as he feels his orgasm tug through him sudden and rough. That seems to be all it takes - Trevor’s breath hitches behind him, a strangled sound dragging out of his throat. He bucks his hips against him once, then twice, holding him tight and close until he finally lets out one slow shaky breath.

Michael stares at the worn paint of the door in front of him, heart thudding up behind his ears, air feeling rough against his throat.

Trevor’s hand is still tight against his shoulder, but as soon as Michael starts to move it loosens, and he falls back, leaning hard against the wall behind them.

Michael doesn’t turn, not yet. He leans against his arm on the door, trying to slow down his breathing, trying to ignore the growing discomfort of his jeans and the mess he must be because of it. 

Behind him he hears Trevor sigh, lifting himself off the wall. A few seconds later the sink turns on, the hollow sound of water bouncing off the cool tiles of the bathroom along with the grate of the paper towel dispenser being made good use of. Michael lets himself turn around, leaning back against the door. He watches Trevor toss a few damp paper towels into the trash, adjusting his obviously damp jeans.

He heads back towards him. Michael swallows. He stops a foot or so away, staring right back at him. Michael holds the gaze, he doesn’t have to energy to do much else.

“I’m going to go change. At home,” Trevor notes. “You coming?”

Michael stares back at him. After a moment he shakes his head. 

Trevor snorts roughly. “What a shock.”

He snatches the door handle, pulling it open as Michael eases off, opening the way. Trevor steps out and then pauses. He leans back in quickly, getting a hand on Michael’s cheek and turning him his way to plant a messy rushed kiss against his lips. It’s clumsy and he just gets the corner, but it’s only for a second then he clears his throat sharply and lets the door swing shut behind him again.

Michael stares at the tiles against the floor feeling numb and electric, fantastic and awful. He falls back against the door, closes his eyes with a heavy sigh, and tries to work out how long it will take him to sneak down to his clean clothes in the locker room.

 

As it turns out, waiting in the locker room until practice seems the easiest thing. Maybe there’s something in the familiar feeling of the place that he thinks will make things fall into place right in his head. The others to arrive eventually, voices starting as just a few then growing to the usual hum of slamming lockers and shouted names, the buzzing energy of twenty voices hungry for a victory.

Practice passes in a haze. Everything’s the same, just as it has been. The field’s little bouncier after the rain, it’s the same voices, the same people, the same drills, the same cheers from students passing by. It’s everything that’s always been right and in place, but now, today, it feels off kilter, like things have been twisted slightly out of place and no one notices but him. And maybe that’s just it. Maybe it’s not everything else that’s out of place. Maybe he’s suddenly standing, with one foot outside of it all, and looking back things are misted, shrouded in a pale grey that he couldn’t see from the inside but always felt lingering at the edges of sense.

His shoulder still feels off, but it’s not nearly as bad as it was, and resting it for the past week has helped plenty. It should be fine for the next game, and away one, last game before the Championships come hurtling around the corner.

Practice folds to a close as the light deepens over the field, players jockeying against the bench with water bottles and sports drinks, laughing against the twilight. Michael gazes across the field. The cheer squad is wrapping up as well, falling out of formation into a looser group around their bags and the bleachers. One of the figures stands still against the rest, looking back in his direction. Her hair is tied up neat and pretty behind her head, posture straight and still, staring right back at him. He starts to cross the field. 

He reaches her as she scoops her duffle bag off the ground. She hands it to him and he hefts it over his good shoulder, hand slipping into her instinctively. Her fingers wrap around his. They hardly feel there at all. 

Silently, they walk together through the twilight towards where her car is waiting, parked to the far side of the dirt lot. 

Amanda stands with her hands on the hood of the car for a moment, her back to him. Her skirt knocks gently against the breeze. He watches her. It would be so easy to reach out, to put a hand on her hip and pull her back against his chest. She might even let him. But that feels off too, as though doing that would be putting both feet back into this grey world and for some reason he just can’t seem to manage it. 

“So?” she asks.

He swallows, wetting his lips before answering. “So what?”

She turns to face him, expression lost somewhere between anger and exhaustion. “What’s going on, Michael?”

He frowns. “What are you talking about?”

She lets out half a laugh, shaking her head. “God, you just can’t stop that act can you - you can’t help yourself.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mand.”

“You know _exactly_ what I’m talking about,” she pushes back. “You’re different. And I want to know why. I _deserve_ to know why.”

The immediate response hangs on his tongue, so easy to push the rest off, to let the half-truth carry it, _”Nothing’s changed. You’re imagining it, Mand. Things are fine, it’s just been stressful, the game, the championships that’s all.”_

But those aren’t the words that come out. 

“I don’t know,” Michael croaks. “God,” he shakes his head, running a rough hand through his hair. “I don’t know, Mand, I honestly don’t know.”

Her expression deepens, arms crossed tight in front of her chest. “Is it that… Phillips kid, whatever his name is?”

“No. Yes. I mean— hell.“ Michael groans loudly. “I don’t know. No. No, it’s not that - it’s not him, it’s something else, something deeper than that, Mand, it’s everything, all of this, this, bullshit.”

She stares back at him a concerned crease between her perfect eyebrows. “What ‘bullshit’ Michael?”

“This!” he suddenly yells, gesturing widely around them. “All of this!”

“All of what?” she snaps back.

“ _Everything_! God—“ he steps back. “Do you not see it? Do you not see how _fucked_ everything about this is?”

“What are you talking about?”

“All this pretense and lies and garbage and nothing, god it’s all just _nothing_!”

“You’re the only one lying, Michael.”

“No,” he glares back, “no, no, _everyone_ is fucking lying, everyone is just grabbing at lies and strapping them on because they don’t know what the hell else to do, because they’re too afraid to see what the world looks like without them. Popularity, and pretensions, and parties, all the macho bullshit and the attitude, _us_ , fucking us, walking around like we own this school and what does any of it mean? What makes any of it fucking real?”

She stares back at him eyes wide. “Real? What are you even talking about?”

“I don’t fucking know, Mand—“

“You sound _insane_ , Michael! Of course it’s real!”

“It’s not,” he shakes his head. “It’s all crap. It’s a gigantic load of unfathomable crap. We just do this, all of this, because we think it’s what we’re supposed to do, because we think it’s what makes us something. But it doesn’t. And god, it’s all such fucking garbage.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Off in the distance there’s the sound of other players, other students chatting on the way back to their cars, doors slamming gently behind them.

“Michael?”

He looks up.

She glares back at him, eyes hard and set. “Fuck you.”

He blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” she answers. “You say all of this is bullshit, that it’s crap, but it’s not. Not to me. Not to Blake and Coopers and Jackson and the rest of us. I like this life. I like myself. I want to be happy. Even if you’re determined not to be. And you know what? If you hate it _so_ much, if you hate ‘this’ and all of us so damn much, then why are you still here, huh? Why don’t you fuck off instead of telling everything else to!”

He stares back at her, mouth open but he can’t seem to make it work around an answer.

“But you haven’t, have you? You haven’t fucked off and gone to do something better, to live your non-bullshit life. You’re still here. Still right her with the rest of us. You’re the one who’s the coward, Michael. It’s easy to be above everything isn’t it? But guess what, when you put yourself above us, above everything, above everyone, you end up _alone_ , Michael. Not better. Not superior. Just: alone.”

She turns back to the car, opening the driver’s side door. Michael watches her stupidly, unable to think of a single fucking thing to say. She reaches inside, grabbing something and pushing it into his arms as she takes her duffle off the ground. “Here.”

He closes his hands around his varsity jacket as she lets it go, climbing right into her car.

“You don’t want this?” Michael manages to ask.

“Not right now.” She sighs, tightening her hands on the steering wheel. “Look, Michael just— figure out what you want. Because I can’t do it for you. And I don’t think I want to.” 

She shuts the door behind her.

He watches her car leave, winding out of the parking lot with a puff of dust, turning down the road back towards town. He stares after it for a long time, the light shifting, deepening and darkening around him.

It doesn’t take him long to walk back to his Audi. 

He spins the car around the parking lot easily, pulling away from the field towards the road. He stops at the intersection, staring out right in front at the road beyond. His windows are down, trying to lessen the heat that had been trapped in the car for hours. A breeze pushes in, moving the warmth in eddies and ripples across his skin still damp from practice. He glances into the rearview mirror to the field behind him. It looks so still sitting there, like something off of a brochure or some TV screen. It hardly looks real at all. He glances down. His jacket sits balled up in the passenger seat next to him. 

He looks back to the road. Quiet, still. Just like everything else. He turns to wheel in the wrong direction, driving quickly before he has time to think. 

The audi pulls to a stop a few feet back from the trailer. He switching off the ignition. He doesn’t get out of the car. 

God. How many mistakes can he possible make in one day? There must be some record he’s close to breaking. 

Michael let’s himself sigh, forehead falling between his hands on the steering wheel. She’s right, isn’t she? She’s exactly fucking right. And what is he doing about it? What’s he ever going to do about it? 

That feeling presses close again, two realities sitting side by side, standing in each one. Half in, half out. 

_”What you want…”_ What does he want? Why does it feel like there’s ten shades to that answer, the shape of it changing like a mirror twisting in the light?

He shouldn’t be here. He knows that. It’s just making it worse, harder than it has to be to shove this world away, to fall back where he ought to. It had been so easy weeks ago, before all this. Before him. It had been easy. To stand in one world. Hadn’t it? It had to have been. Anything was easier than this. It could be easy again. He just has to let it be.

The passenger side door opens. Someone climbs inside.

Michael feels his stomach twist. He lifts his head off the steering wheel. “Look, T—“

Trevor swings one leg with shocking agility. In less than a second he’s flush in Michael’s lap, kissing him hard, and suddenly, the entire world snaps back to life, in vicious deafening color.

He hears himself inhale, sharp and deep, every feeling colliding together in bouncing sparking chaos: Trevor’s teeth against his lip, Trevor’s thighs around his, Trevor’s fingers tight in his hair, Trevor’s mouth hot and sharp and tasting of booze and smoke and something metallic, Trevor’s smell raw and overwhelming: beer and sun-burnt leather and desert. Just him, everywhere, everything, and in two seconds, anything else, every other piece of the entire fucking world, has snapped away into nothing.

Michael groans into Trevor’s mouth, hands sliding around his ass and tugging him closer, not that between the seat and the steering wheel leaves much fucking space at all, but that doesn’t seem to be presenting much of a problem. Trevor’s all limbs, bizarrely almost graceful for someone that tall slammed into the front seat of a car in another guy’s lap. His legs seems to fit just in just the right wrong way, fingers working under Michaels’ shirt hungrily. 

“What took you so damn long?” Trevor mutters, edging his hips against Michael’s, the line of his cock suddenly tight against Michael’s side.

Michael catches Trevor’s jawline against his mouth, feeling the scrap of his stumble on his lips, voice hard in Trevor’s ear. “Nothing fucking worth it.”

Trevor lets out a soft moan at that, hands unfolding wide against Michael’s waist, fingers hungry against the weight of his skin. “God you’re fucking solid man, you know that?”

Michael grins. “Yeah and you’re a bony fucker, you know that?”

Trevor chuckles, voice close. “Smart. Real fucking smart.” He wraps his hand around Michael’s clothed cock.

Michael swears aloud, knocking his head back against the seat. He just manages to drop on hand to his side, pulling the lever and sliding the seat further back.

Trevor gives an approving grunt, fingers snatching to Michael’s belt as he darts forward to kiss him again. 

Michael lets himself drown in it, opening, feeling the thick, heady slide of his tongue against his, of wet lips and snatching teeth. He drags a hand up the side of his neck, into his hair, tightening there before sliding to the back of his neck with a firm grip so he can urge his hips up in small desperate motions. 

Trevor tugs his belt open, fiddling with Michael’s fly. He gets a hand around his bared cock just as he catches Michael’s lower lip in his teeth, pulling back on his lip and down with his grip at once.

Michael groans, loud, messy and selfless, arching his hips into Trevor’s tight grip.

“Fuck me,” Trevor mutters, twisting and jerking down again. 

“God—!“ Michael’s hand tightens on Trevor’s ass before shifting, fingers suddenly scrambling at Trevor’s belt, clumsy against the raw overwhelming feeling of his pace on him. 

Trevor hums some sort of acknowledgment, shifting his weight, wrapping his other hand tight around Michael with another pump and letting his now free hand work his own jeans. He tugs himself free and Michael can’t help straining his neck to stare down. Michael snatches Trevor’s hips fully again, tugging him closer and Trevor huffs, wrapping his hand around both of them as the distance closes.

A stunned moan punches out of Michael’s chest, head falling forward heavy and hard against Trevor’s shoulder.

He can feel Trevor’s breathing hitch, chest rising and falling as he tries to keep an even pace, hips staggering out a rhythm against him.

“How’s that?” he murmurs.

Michael opens his mouth, lips dragging against his clavicle. “Good.”

“Yeah?” He twists, hissing in a breath hot against Michael’s ear. 

Michael just manages not to whimper. “Good. God - really fucking good—“

Trevor makes a satisfied noise. Michael fumbles for a moment, not sure exactly what he’s trying to do until his hand closes around Trevor’s, tightening their grip.

“Fuck—“ Trevor growls, hips suddenly snapping forward. Michael follows him, that tell-tale heat dropping deep under his dick, pushing him forward, turning the drive of his hips into something crazed. And Trevor meets him, matches him, hips grinding hard against his, thighs tightening against Michael’s sharply, fist pumping them together in harsh firm pulls.

Trevor comes first. The half-shout jolts out of him, orgasm spilling hot and slick between them, and fuck that’s all Michael needs. He groans, deep and low, letting himself drag through it slow and steady. He let’s out a shaky breath as the last wave of sensation pulls back. He can taste Trevor’s skin under his mouth, feeling the tightness of the shoulder against his forehead start to loosen.

They stay still for a moment, before finally leaning back again. Michael lets himself collapse against the seat, the post-orgasm hum oozing up his limbs. Trevor falls back against the wheel, loosing his thighs against Michael’s. Michael sees him glance down at them with a small contented sound. He tugs off his tank top, wiping off his own hand and himself before shoving the fabric into Michael’s grip and sliding himself back into his jeans. 

Trevor pops the car door open, stumbling back out into the packed dust of the drive shirtless. He stretches with a feline motion, letting out a long breath. Michael stays where he is, head back against the seat-rest, eyes closed, letting the humming thoughtlessness of all of it wash over him.

Trevor leans back against the car, looking in the window, limbs loose and smile lazy. “Hey.”

Michael cracks an eye. “Mmm?”

“Wanna get drunk and fuck on the beach?”

Michael feels himself smile back.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, this chapter's a bit of a roller coaster.
> 
> And this seems like a good time to link my imagined theme-song for this whole story.  
> [[ check it out ]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MQvHU_Eoa9w)

The air that flows off of the water smells fresh and sharp against the desert. Everything feels more alive than the last time they were here, like the sand at least managed to hold some of the rain down and feed it back up again. A few of the scattered cacti holding onto the edges of the banks have even popped out a flowers, and the shrubs seem thicker, hearty and satisfied.

Michael let’s his eyes close, breathing it in. Everything seems so lush suddenly, out here, away from everything, lush and free and just simply, miraculously, alive.

Trevor drives a knee into the back of his. “Hey, move it fat-ass.”

“You can go around you know.”

Trevor smirks back. “I’m the one with the beer. That makes it _my_ right o’ way.”

Michael sighs, turning back to the path and letting himself amble down towards the sea. There’s a breeze, but nothing strong enough to turn the waves into anything more that a few feet of curve, crashing gently down against the sand and rolling back out again.

The sun’s under the horizon, but hasn’t been for long. The brightest colors of the sunset have burnt off, leaving things a paler sort of bright, lavenders and blues and a trace of pink darting across the water.

Trevor drops the case of beer down into the sand with a clink. “You’re behind.” He nudges the skin of Michael’s arm with the cold glass. Michael takes it. The beer goes down cold and crisp before he pops the bottle back out of his lips.

Trevor’s watching him. 

“What?” Michael asks.

Trevor leers. “Do that again.”

The comeback is ready to spring out but he finds himself forcing it back. He takes another long drag off the bottle and licks his lips afterwards.

Trevor watches his mouth without an ounce of self-consciousness, lips dragging into that lazy smirk. “Know what you are?”

Michael shifts towards him. “What?”

“Ameri-fucking-cana.”

Michael can’t help snorting a laugh. “Yeah, right. You gonna let me finish this one?”

“Maybe,” Trevor winks. He turns back to the beer case, snatching something out of it. It’s a ratty plaid blanket, the right corner of which looks like it’s been entirely consumed by moths. Michael watches as Trevor fusses with the thing, dragging it out into the sand in as even a rectangle as possible before plopping down with a sigh and snatching another beer.

“Alright, get over here,” Trevor grumbles.

Michael stares. “You actually brought a blanket? We having a fucking picnic?”

“Hey tough-guy, you want sand in your ass be my guest, I’ll enjoy my own damn blanket.”

Michael shakes his head, falling back on the thing next to him. He leans back on his elbows, taking along long pull of the beer as Trevor cracks his fresh one open. 

“So,” Trevor starts.

“So,” Michael answers.

Trevor rolls his head to the side, expression teasing. “How was your day?”

Michael’s chokes a laugh on his mouthful of beer. Trevor grins, watching as he tries to wipe the beer out of his nose. 

“Oh fuck me,” Michael starts, “Honestly?”

“Honestly, honestly.”

“My day…” Michael hums, leaning his head back. “Bit weird. If I’m being totally honest. Weird day.”

“Mmm, well, hey, better than boring.”

“There’s that.”

“How’s all them sports? Got that game tomorrow, huh?”

Michael rolls his eyes, smiling around another sip of beer. “Yeah. Because you give a fuck.”

“Mm, I give a few fucks. How’s that shoulder?”

Michael can’t help tensing. “Fine.”

“Oh yeah?” His hand snakes up Michael’s shoulder, fingers easing into a grip. “Lemme see.”

Michael shrugs him off. Trevor snorts, taking along slug of his beer. “Anyways, that last game didn’t turn out to be all that dull, did it?”

“ _That_ is not going to happen again.”

Trevor shrugs. “Hey, who knows.”

Michael turns to him. “It’s an away game.”

“I heard that some people actually _drive_ to towns that, get this, are _outside_ of their own! Shocking I know but—”

Michael holds his look firmly. “It’s _not_ going to happen again, T.”

“Yeah, sure, fine,” Trevor snaps, “whatever. You know _maybe_ I just want to take in some good ol’ American past-time, huh? Would that be a fucking crime?”

“That’s baseball.”

“Whatever.”

Michael raises a brow. “You’re not seriously going to go, are you?” 

“Why?” Trevor looks at him suddenly. “Don’t want me to?”

“It’s not—,” Michael sighs, giving his head a slight shake. “It’s not that I don’t _want_ you to go, christ, does that even matter?”

Trevor keeps watching him. “Don’t know. Does it?”

“Fine. Then no, alright, it would be a lot fucking easier if you weren’t there.”

“Ah,” Trevor turns back to the ocean. He puts his beer to his lips, nearly finishing it. “Right.”

“Look man, I told you, alright, things are just all over the place with the guys and Amanda and, yeah, okay, it would make things easier for me. Is that so fucking terrible?”

“Nah, ‘course not,” Trevor sneers. He leans back and with a sharp motion chucks his empty bottle. It spirals end over end, finally plunking into the sea. “Because that’s exactly what we’re all after isn’t it Mikey? To make your life just as easy as fucking possible.” 

“Hey, that’s—“ Michael starts. 

Trevor stands up suddenly, walking towards the ocean. 

“Hey!” Michael calls after him. “Just ho— hold…” Trevor swipes his tank top off over his head, chucking it off behind him, “uh,” his fingers work at his belt for just a minute and then he’s kicking his jeans off. Right along with his briefs. He dives ass-naked into the ocean.

“…On,” Michael finishes lamely.

The water’s just as unbroken it was for a long moment, then finally, Trevor pops up letting out a a powerful “whoop” as he does. He gives his head a sharp shake, slapping his hair spastically to either side of his head before falling right back into the water with a loud splash.

Michael stares for a long moment. What the fuck else is he supposed to do? 

“Hey,” Trevor’s voice calls. “Any chance you want to bring me another beer?” 

Michael can’t help smiling. His fingers wrap around the cold of another bottle from the box.

He walks slowly over to the tide-line. “Here.”

Trevor pops up again, treading against the waves. “Chuck it.”

Michael moves to throw it. Then stops. “Why don’t you come get it?”

Trevor eyes him mischievously. “What? Can’t throw?”

“Oh yeah, you know me,” Michael grins. “Can’t throw for shit.”

Trevor narrows his eyes. “Mmm, that’s too bad.”

For a moment Michael wonders if he’s going to just ignore him after all. But no, he starts swimming towards the shore. Michael watches carefully, pulse feeling a little faster as he gets closer and closer. Trevor swims as close as he can keeping his body in the water, close than Michael would have guessed. He treads water when the depth runs out, a knowing sort of curiosity behind his eyes. 

He stands up all at once, walking the two or three feet left to reach him.

God. What the hell made him think this was a good idea? 

Trevor doesn’t seem like he could care less but suddenly Michael’s throat is far drier than it has any excuse to be and he can’t stop fucking _staring_. At how his hair is stuck to his face, and how the water’s catching on his clavicle, the bones of his hips, and—

“Hey now, keep a lid on any shrinkage jokes, huh?” Trevor grins.

Like he fucking has to. He looks half-hard as it is.

“Can I get that beer?”

Michael just manages to hand it to him. Trevor takes one long drink, not giving a shit that some of it spills out the side of his mouth and down his neck.

He pulls the bottle back. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Michael manages.

Before Michael can catch himself, Trevor snatches out and with one sharp tug pulls him right back into the water with him.

Salt water shoves up his nose and Michael swats at it, popping up again with a gasp. “Christ!”

Trevor’s in hysterics just a few feet away, beer bottle lost somewhere in the waves.

Michael narrows his eyes, closing the distance between them in two short strokes and grabbing his shoulders, shoving him under with a quick push, but Trevor just pops right back up again and suddenly Michael can’t help but get him by the neck and pull him close enough to shove his mouth onto his. 

Trevor laughs into the kiss, tasting of raw salt and beer, hands already working at Michael’s shirt, peeling the soaked thing up over his head and chucking it back onto the beach. He locks his legs around Michael’s waist, rising up for leverage. In the water, like this, he hardly weighs anything at all. 

Michael lets his hands trace the rough line of his thighs under the water, moving around and up his hips to his bare waist and giving a firm squeeze around the bottom of his ribs. Trevor tilts his head back, getting a better angle to ease his tongue into Michael’s mouth. He feels Trevor’s cock bob against his bare stomach and pulls him closer, pressing it flush, close enough for Trevor to let out a whine, hips giving a thoughtless jerk into him.

“Shit—“ Michael swears, “c’mon let’s get out.”

“Mmm,” Trevor protests, snatching at Michael’s lip with his teeth, hands tightening against his hair. 

“Come on—“ Michael urges, hands tightening against the bones of his hips, and right on fucking cue a wave rises up and smashes into the side of them. 

Michael just manages to hold onto him, but when they come up Trevor’s laughing. “Fine, fucking fine.”

Michael stumbles back toward the beach, which is a little hard with Trevor still wrapped around his waist, still kissing him, hardly letting him up for air. The second they’re out of the water Trevor gets a good deal heavier, and Michael just manages to stumble the final couple of yards before crashing back on that ratty blanket clumsily. 

Trevor’s hands are already working Michael’s belt and the water hasn’t made that any easier. He growls in frustration and Michael gives in, falling back onto his knees and popping the thing open. It takes longer than it should to get out of his soaked shorts and Trevor hardly waits for him to kick them to one side, snatching him and tugging him back down again. Michael’s cock grinds against Trevor’s bare thigh and suddenly he’s lost on that feeling, rutting against him mindlessly with small huffs, one hand bracing himself against the blanket. The other hand searches blindly until it finds Trevor’s hip and slides lower, fumbling to snatch tight around his dick.

Trevor groans loudly, back arching high which just adds friction where Michael’s pressed to his thigh and shit, _shit_ is this what it would always be like with him? Like slipping on the side of a fucking cliff and before you know it you’re rolling, crashing, right down.

Trevor snatches a hand messily into Michael’s hair, the stick of salt already starting to settle in against them. He drags the pad of his other thumb against Michael’s lip and Michael snatches it, closing his lips around it for a firm moment as he twists his grip on his dick.

“God-! Fuck, Mikey—“ Trevor hisses, hips stuttering into his hand. “There’s— fuck— the goddamn box—“

Michael swallows, trying to focus, trying to get his pace back under control. He nips down on Trevor’s thumb one last time and then pulls back, sitting up again. The sudden lack of his skin on his is more cloying than he’d have though, but Trevor’s still got his hand in his, opening his mouth against his palm, leaving teasing, nipping kisses against his wrist.

“What the hell am I looking for?” Michael swears, fumbling at the box.

“Take a fucking guess,” Trevor growls back. The hand that isn’t teasing Michael’s fingers through his mouth has wrapped around his own cock and that image isn’t making staying off of him any easier.

Michael sees a familiar glimmer in the box and suddenly the heat deep in his stomach sinks even lower with a sharp thrill.

He pulls the condom out, heavy gaze falling back to Trevor. “I— really?”

Trevor rolls his eyes so hard Michael doesn’t hesitate pulling his hand back from him and ripping the thing open. And fuck his hands are actually shaking. 

Trevor leans back, hand slipping back around himself, lazily but steadily and the sight of that has Michael forgetting anything else on the fucking earth exists at all. He just manages to pull the find little bottle of lube in the box and give himself a few all-too indulgent pumps before collapsing back on him. 

He opens his mouth on Trevor’s neck, his chest, and suddenly he’s moving lower, tasting the salt on the line of his hip. His cheek rubs against the line of Trevor’s cock and suddenly he’s thoughtlessly dragging his tongue up the full length of him.

Trevor hisses through his teeth, snatching Michael’s hair and holding him back before he can pay him any more attention. “Fucking alright already.” His fingers dig into Michael’s hipbone, shifting him between his thighs, arching his hips to stretch for Michael’s and dragging Michael’s cock against the line of his ass in the process.

“Shit, T—“ Michael swears. He tries to focus tries to ignore the painful way his cock is bobbing just between them and actually focus. “I’ve never actually - I don’t—“

Trevor groans in pure frustration, one hand grabbing Michael’s ass, the other guiding his cock right up against his entrance.

Michael just manages to hold back a gasp at that feeling, swallowing hard. “Don’t you need, fuck I don’t know—“

“ ’S fine,” Trevor grunts, tugging him closer, close enough for the head of his cock to push just into him.

Michael bites down a groan. “Sure?”

Trevor growls hard. “ _Yes!_ For fuck’s sake! I-ahH—“ The words stumble off, lost on a ragged groan as Michael braces himself and steadily pushes in.

Michael grits his teeth against the feeling. It’s tight and hot and, god _fuck_ , impossibly, ridiculously, good. He feels everyone of Trevor’s muscles tense under him and panic suddenly swells under the heat of lust.

“Hey—“ he manages, “are you—?“

Trevor swallows nodding hard. He takes a breath and the tenseness eases, softens. His dick bobs hard between them and he suddenly gives his hips a tight jerk.

“FUck—“ Michael gasps. His hip answer without his permission, thrusting in even deeper. Trevor shudders hard under him, hands suddenly turning into claws against his back, and that isn’t making it any fucking easier—

Michael thrusts forward again. And again. Trevor’s mouth falls open, his body loosening, rhythm rolling forward against Michael’s with sudden, even need.

Michael grits his teeth, he shifts his weight, and suddenly Trevor let’s out a shocked ragged sound. Michael stares, focuses, and rolls forward in the same spot.

Trevor swears, loudly. His eyes slamming open onto Michaels, hands suddenly scrambling for purchase against the weight of Michael’s arms, his back, hips, anything, and Michael just can’t help himself. He drives forward, rhythm constant and unflinching. Trevor’s lost against it, voice transforming into hardly anything but ragged staggered breathes. His hand snatches for his own cock but Michael beats him too it, tightening his grip with a few pulls and that’s all it takes. Trevor’s eyes fly open, orgasm shoving out of him between Michael’s fingers. At that everything goes far too tight, and far too sharp, and Michael’s following him over the edge, shoving deep with a handful of final shaky thrusts.

He let’s out a groan, weight collapsing as the tension leaves his mucles. Trevor’s hands fall back loose above his head. Michael takes one deep breath, then another, and finally pulls back. He chucks the condom off to one side, falling onto his back next to him on the musty smelling blanket, idly wiping his hand on the fabric next to him. 

He hears Trevor sigh, half sees him folding his hands behind his head and stretching out one of his legs as if it cramped up.

Michael stares up at the sky. Up above, the stars are just starting to peer out of the gloom.

The sun’s officially vanished on the horizon. He can’t see the moon yet, but it might be lingering behind them.

It’s quiet for a long while. 

Michael frowns suddenly. “Huh.”

“Huh, what?” Trevor asks.

“I don’t have any clothes. Do I?”

He can practically hear Trevor grin. “How bout that.”

Michael smacks his shoulder lazily. “Jackass.”

Trevor sits up, suddenly rummaging in the apparently bottomless cardboard box. He pulls something out of it, wrapping it around his shoulders before bouncing to his feet. “Hey. Check it out.”

Michael glances over. He can’t help snorting out an immediate laugh. Trevor’s wearing his jacket, his fucking varsity jacket. And nothing else.

“Eh?” Trevor poses. “How’s it look?”

“Great, T,” Michael grins. “Really. Just fucking great.”

“Damn right.”

 

The team doesn’t stop singing once the entire drive back from the game. 

The volume is deafening inside the metal walls of the bus, packed with bodies that can’t stay seated for a second. Michael finds himself joining in, whooping back with the rest of them as the hot summer air pours in the windows. They did it. They fucking made it. The Championships. Just one game. One more game and it’s all theirs.

Michael leans back against the wall, still perched up on his seat. “Damn good game. Damn good.”

“That last pass man,” Ramirez continues, “now, I’m not going to say it was a totally religious experience—“

“I will!” Jackson breaks it. “The thing basically fell into my hands man, it was goddamn mythic.”

“Yeah, well you were in a damn good place for it,” Michael returns.

“But hey, hey,” Jackson continues, shouldering Ramirez, “how about that _D-Fense_?”

“Not to bad, huh?” Ramirez gloats.

Coopers stumbles up to them, catching himself on the back of the seat as the bus takes a turn. “Not bad _not fucking bad_ , fucking incredible! They couldn’t get a thing past it.”

“Hey now, they tried,” Ramirez insists.

“They did try,” Jackson grins.

“Lot of fucking good it did,” Coopers beams. “Championships man, _Championships_!”

“I don’t know about you boys, but I can see a pretty nice future playing out in front of me,” Ramirez says.

“Oh yeah, how’s that?” Jackson presses.

“Mm, well it starts here, then we crush that Championship. I’ve got five, no fuck that, ten colleges ringing me up, all too damn eager to get my ass on their fields. Next thing I’ve got a chick under each arm, and a scholarship big enough to never have to give a fuck. And oh, look at that, the NFL’s on the phone, begging for me tell school to fuck off once and for all and win some goddamn Super Bowls.”

“I’ll take that,” Coopers salutes. 

Jackson shakes his head with a smile. “What’d you think, Mike. Ready to live that dream?”

Michael gazes across the faces crammed into the bus, cheers ringing in his ears. “Doesn’t sound too bad, huh?”

“Too bad. It’s the fucking American dream,” Ramirez returns. “And you man, you’re signed up for a front row seat.”

“Hey, speaking of which, where the fuck were you last night?” Coopers shoves back.

Michael’s mood shifts instantly, a pang of worry elbowing the euphoria in it’s side. “What?”

“Yeah,” Jackson agrees. “We went to set up right, did a few rituals and shit for good luck.”

Michael raises an eyebrow. “Rituals?”

“Yeah, you know, pouring a drink out, the blessing of the jocks, all the usual shit.”

“Looks like it worked out just fine without me, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, but where were you?” Jackson continues. “Christie said you and Amanda got into a fight or something?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Didn’t sound like nothing. Sounded like she was wondering if you guys were going to split up.”

“Yeah, that would be the day,” Ramirez snorts. “Fucking Hometown American Hero here and our Girl Next Door breaking up. You guys look like every damn ad campaign I’ve ever seen for the suburban teenage fantasy.”

“Did you split up?” Coopers asks.

“No,” Michael says quickly, “we didn’t split up.”

“You gonna?”

“Look Gossip Girls, how about you mind your own fucking business alright?”

“I don’t know man, you’ve been vanishing after practice, fucking-unreachable some nights, Amanda’s pissed at you,” Ramirez shrugs. “Wouldn’t be shocked if you had something on the side.”

Michael’s gut gives a twist. “What the fuck’s that mean?”

“Just saying, you’re the fucking rock-star of the county, I bet there’s a stampede of girls ready to ride your dick. Wouldn’t be surprised. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Yeah, well no one’s riding my fucking dick, alright,” Michael snaps. “Just mind your own fucking business.”

“Just asking, man.”

“Right well, how about you call me up and give me the fucking play-by-play next time you want to fuck around, huh Ramirez?”

“Fuck Mike, he’s just asking,” Jackson rolls his eyes. “Touch-y.”

“Whatever man. Like I give a fuck whose panties end up on the floor of your car,” Ramirez snorts.

“Fuck all that man,” Coopers shoots back, bouncing on his toes. “ _Damn_ this feels good, huh? Winning?”

“Got that right,” Ramirez grins back. “Gonna feel even better too, soon enough.”

“‘Soon enough’, man fuck that, I feel good _now_ \- that’s what matters. What are we going to do, huh? We’re gonna do something. I got to do _something_!”

“Yeah, like what?” Jackson asks.

“God I don’t know, drink something, fuck something, wreck something! Just _something_ man. Come on!”

“I feel that,” Ramirez answers, eyes glowing against the chants and cheers of the jammed bus. “What’d yah think, Mike?”

“Something sounds good,” Michael admits.

“Then what man, give us something to work with here!”

“We’ll find something.”

“But you’re gonna stick around? Not vanish into fucking nowhere? You’re getting good at that.”

“Yeah alright, I’ll fucking stick around.”

The bus curls around a familiar corner. They’re getting close to campus, the streetlights along the parking lot shining through the windows.

“Think the girls are back yet?” Jackson asks.

“Probably,” Ramirez shrugs. “Their ride left a few minute before us. Yeah, look man, there it is.”

Michael rolls his neck, peering out the window. The smaller van the cheerleaders always take is parked in the lot, a few girls still filing out of it.

“Good,” Coopers notes, expression still wired. “We’ll grab them and get out of here.”

The bus comes to a stop in the lot with the a sharp squeal. The guys in the back can’t seem to wait, popping open the emergency exit and jumping down, hurrying all whoops and cheers to the staggered groups that have gathered in the lot the welcome them back, sweeping girls off the asphalt, slapping hands, banging chests, vanishing into cars that peel off into the darkness. 

Michael and the rest wait, pushing their way towards the regular exit from the middle of the bus. As it turns out they’re almost the last out, the bus starting up and driving away behind them as the head across the lot. Coopers jumps a few times on the pavement, glancing around as the last few players stride to cars with friends hands on their backs and girls arms on their waists. 

“Michael!” someone calls. He turns. It’s Christie’s voice. Michael waves with a smile. She’s not smiling. Something’s wrong.

“What the fuck?” he hears Coopers mutter.

“Oh shit,” Jackson swears, looking across the parking lot.

Michael follows the looks.

There’s a red truck sitting under one street light. 

It’s parked a little ways away from the rest of the lot, from the rest of any other lingering cars. A familiar silhouette’s leaning with one arm on the hood, pink jogging shorts riding high with an orange tank-top to match. There’s a girl sitting on the hood of the car next to him, short orange hair pulled back into a tiny pony-tail, cheer uniform sharper colors under the streetlight. Another girl in a uniform stands next to her, tugging at her arm, obviously uncomfortable, almost panicked.

“Oh, there they are, fucking finally,” Blake’s voice drifts over the space between them in the parking lot. She gives a wave. “Hey! Great game, huh?”

Coopers starts to move. Quickly.

“Shit,” Michael swears, reaching for Coopers arm. He misses. He’s moving too fast already.

“Michael,” Amanda calls out warningly, fear creeping into her voice.

“Coopers!” Michael yells. “Wait up!”

He doesn’t. He’s walking at full speed towards the truck. It’s all they can do to keep up.

“HEY!” Michael yells. “COOPERS, STOP!”

“Hey blondie,” Trevor grins, sliding off the hood of the truck. “Good game?”

Coopers hits him.

Amanda gasps, falling back quickly. Blake sips off the hood, staring hungrily as Trevor doubles over.

“Hey!” Michael growls, closing the distance between them and snatching at Coopers shoulder. “Cool it!”

Trevor’s braced one hand on the hood of the car, wiping his bloody nose with the back of his hand, a smile smeared across his lips. “Mmm, guess you might actually have some balls under those shiny pants after all, huh skippy?”

Coopers shoves Michael off of him. He grabs Trevor’s shirt, yanking him back up and before Trevor can catch himself he’s hit him again. 

“HEY!” Michael yells, arms tense agains the effort it takes not to snatch Cooper’s shoulders and throw him back as hard as he can. “Knock it off! NOW!”

Trevor’s lips peel into a snarl. He’s snaps a tight punch into Coopers’ gut. Coopers staggers back with a gasp before swinging again. Trevor dodges, snatching Cooper’s head and slamming it right onto the hood of the car with a harsh clatter of sound. Coopers roars out a swear, rage swelling up under him. He reaches out sharply, catching Trevor right by the neck, grip tight and hard and fast.

“Fuck,” Michael tries. “Come on guys, stop it—”

Trevor lets out a strangled gasp under Cooper’s hand, fingers snatching for purchase on his arm.

“STOP IT NOW!”

“Why?” a voice asks.

Michael turns. 

Ramirez stares back at him, expression cold. Calm. Michael can see his hands ready at his sides. “Why should they stop?”

Michael’s words twist on his tongue. He turns back to the car, expression wild. Trevor’s gasping, scrambling. Coopers’ pulls back at hits him again. And again.

Ramirez let’s out a little laugh behind him. 

“Blake,” Michael swallows, trying to keep his voice calm. “It’s enough, enough tell him that’s enough.” 

Blake’s transfixed, lips parted, eyes hard on the fight. “No.”

“What the hell do you mean ‘no’?!”

She doesn’t look away. “I want to see what happens. Don’t you?”

Trevor lashes out suddenly, one hand grabbing into the muscles on Coopers side and squeezing, twisting. Coopers cries out, grip loosening on his neck and that’s all it takes. Trevor falls free, breath ragged in his throat, eyes wild. His whole body is tense, ready, like something feral, but he’s not moving for him. He’s holding back, trying to at least, and the weight of that, the weight of what he’s trying to do and why settles hard and sharp behind Michael’s chest.

“Coopers,” Michael tries. “Calm _down_.”

Coopers’ head snaps towards Michael, teeth bared. “The fuck is wrong with you, Michael? Fuck you _‘calm down’_!”

“This is stupid,” Michael pushes on, “someone’s going to get seriously fucked up. The team, Coopers—“

“The team isn’t here,” Ramirez notes behind them, voice oddly calm. “No one’s here.”

Michael stares around. He’s right. The parking lot is empty. Silent. Just the cool of street lights and the sound of Trevor’s breathe trying to remember how it moves through his throat.

“Shit,” Michael gasps under his breath, “shit, it’s not — just…” But what the fuck can he say? What the hell is he going to say?

“You don’t think this fucker deserves what’s coming?” Coopers shouts.

“Asking for it,” Ramirez agrees. “Always has been.”

“Fuck it. I don’t give a fuck what you think,” Coopers shoves back. “If I want to drag his skull across the entire fucking parking lot, that’s _exactly_ what I’m going to do.”

“Fucking try it, goldilocks,” Trevor growls.

“God, just, shit—“ Michael tries. Amanda’s staring at him. They’re all staring at him. “Jackson,” he tries desperately.

Jackson looks back at him, expression still concern. “How’s it different?”

“What do you mean different?”

Jackson holds his look. “From what he did to Haines.”

Michael stares back. He opens his mouth but nothing falls out of it.

“Amanda,” Jackson says quietly, “Christie… come on, I’ll drive you home.”

He turns away. They hurry after him, eager to get away. Amanda peers over her shoulder, holding Michael’s eyes for a moment before vanishing into the dark.

Coopers swings again before Michael can call out. Trevor doesn’t dodge, or doesn’t try to. He can’t be sure which. 

Trevor smashes back against the metal of the truck door with a hiss, arm catching, slicing on the corner of roof. He turns back to Coopers. Something’s gone dark behind his eyes. 

Trevor launches at him with a roar. The shock of that actually seems to catch Coopers off guard. Trevor pins him the ground, Cooper’s head smacking against the asphalt with a dull wretched sound. Blake let’s a shocked gasp, falling back a few steps. 

“Fuck this,” Ramirez swears, moving to help. 

Trevor’s got his knees on his shoulders, both fists flying. One punch. Then another. And another. Ramirez locks an arm around Trevor’s neck, dragging him off and back as Trevor scrambles against the hold. Coopers rolls over, drooling a thick mouthful of blood down onto the asphalt. 

Trevor snarls against Ramirez’ but he has him good and hard. He backs them up, staggering into a solid stance against the truck. He glances over his shoulder, adjusting his grip smartly as Coopers slowly climbs back to his feet, shaking his head loose and ready.

Michael stares. He’s frozen to the pavement. Like it’s some fucking nightmare he can only watch and not stop.

“Hey,” Ramirez suddenly calls, looking to Michael. “You loose your jacket?”

Michael feels his stomach contort under him. 

Trevor’s eyes are burning, glaring down at the asphalt with bared teeth, body still twisting frantically like a stout in a trap.

“What?” Michael manages to croak.

“He’s got it! In his fucking front-seat,” Ramirez laughs. “I knew he was following you, fuck me. You got a little crush, huh?” Ramirez pushes into Trevor’s ear. He twists his grip on Trevor’s arms hard, shoving impossible pressure against his shoulder joint. Trevor yells aloud. “Sick fucking freak.”

Coopers takes one step and he’s in front of them again. “Got him?” he asks Ramirez, voice raw.

“Yeah. I fucking got him.”

“Don’t—“ Michael tries. He can’t move. Why can’t he move?

Coopers reels back. He hits hard. Trevor’s head snaps back with a choked sound, red suddenly bubbling from between his teeth. Coopers lands another in his gut. Trevor crumbles forward, blood dripping in messy trails onto the asphalt below. 

“Fuck you,” Trevor mutters, “fuck you fuck you fuck you—“ 

Michael thinks he’s the only one who knows who he’s talking to.

He’s going to be sick. Goddamn it. God fucking damn it. 

“Stop,” he manages. “Christ, just — just stop.”

“Shut up, Mike,” Coopers snaps, “just get in here. Plenty of meat left.”

He lands another into his ribs. There’s a hard sound and Ramirez is suddenly laughing. “Fuck man I think that was his rib.”

Trevor sags in his grip. His face is a wreck. He can barely stand. Michael’s feet start to move. 

“Think you’re so fucking great, huh?” Coopers hisses. “That you can walk around, do whatever the fuck you want? Like you’re king of the fucking world. Well look at you now, huh?”

Another hit. Another. Sickness swells up in Michael’s gut. He’s moving fast, knuckles clenching at his sides.

“You know, people think you’re some type of fucking genius, and that’s why you get to stay here, get to pull that shit and not get kicked out. But guess what? I heard something different.”

Coopers locks a hand around Trevor’s throat, pushing him back into Ramirez stony weight.

“I heard the only reason you get to stick around, the only reason you get the stay in any goddamn school, is cause you mom comes around every six months and sucks the princiapl’s dick, just so she doesn’t have to fucking deal with a piece of shit like you.”

Trevor suddenly goes very still. Slowly, his teeth begin to pull into a snarl. Michael feels his steps slow.

Trevor darts out, teeth catching against Coopers arm and sinking in deep.

Coopers screams, twisting as hard as he can. He’s shoving at Trevor’s shoulder. But he won’t let go. His teeth stay where they are, deep and fast. Blood is starting to drool free. 

“GET HIM OFF, GET HIM THE FUCK OFF!” Cooper roars.

Ramirez swears. He chucks Trevor out of his grip as hard as he can. 

That does it. He breaks free. And a decent sized chunk of Cooper’s arm comes with him.

Coopers let’s out a jagged scream. He falls to his knees, staring at the bloody tear carved in his arm.

Blake turns away sharply, face suddenly white. She starts walking very quickly away, breaking into a run right across the parking lot.

“What the fuck!” Ramirez swears. “Shit! SHIT! What the fuck?”

Trevor’s already standing again, limping to his truck. He pulls something out of the back. A gasoline canister. He turns back, raising it over his shoulder. It smashes Coopers right across the face. Coopers falls back limp, Trevor passing him on a direct path towards the only other two cars left in the lot.

“Fuck,” Ramirez swears, rushing towards where Coopers crumbled and broken on the ground behind him.

Trevor’s limping, but he’s moving. He drags himself the rest of the way, reaching the cars. Their cars. High arches of gas slap over them. Michael’s Audi is sitting right beside the others, gasoline sparkling off the windshield.

“Hey!” Ramirez yells, just noticing, “HEY! That’s my fucking car!”

Trevor chucks the empty canister in after the rest, snatching a lighter from his pocket.

“HEY! WAIT!” Ramirez screams.

He throws it down.

Flames explode into life around the shiny metal. Ramirez just manages to stop running in time, skidding to a stop. Trevor stands there, limp posture watching as the orange light fills the sky. 

Somewhere in the distance, sirens start to whine.

“Crazy mother-fucker!” Ramirez roars. His hands snatches hold of Trevor’s shoulder, throwing him hard back across the lot. 

Trevor moves to stand. Ramirez kicks him back again, hard enough to land him against the grill of the truck.

Trevor collapses back on the ground, laughter rolling off his lips, crazy wild laughter.

“Shut up!” Ramirez screams. “SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

Trevor doesn’t shut up. He can’t stop laughing. It’s manic and uncontrollable and suddenly Ramirez is grabbing Trevor’s arm, twisting it into an angle. “Fuck you. FUCK YOU!” He’s pinning his arm on the ground, holding the wrist down, raising his foot—

“NO!” Michael yells out, lunging for him.

Too late. 

Ramirez foot comes down hard. The bone of Trevor’s forearm splinters under it. 

Trevor roars. The sound of it echoes, circling into the sky with the black of smoke and the heat of flames.

He falls back, curling in on himself against the pain as Ramirez stares down.

Blake’s car suddenly screams to a halt in front of them. She staggers out, trying to get a hand around Coopers.

“We have to go!” she screams. “Now. NOW!” 

The sirens are getting louder.

“Shit,” Ramirez swears. “Yeah, yeah.” He gets a solid arm under Coopers, hefting him into back of the car. He turns. “Michael! Coming?!”

Micheal stares. Trevor’s nothing a pile at the front of his truck. Something bursts with shocking volume behind them - one of the cars.

“Man fuck this,” Ramirez falls into the car, slamming the door behind him. Blake peels out, vanishing into the distance.

Michael’s moving before he realizes it, wrapping an arm under Trevor’s lifting him up. He’s limp. Barely conscious. The arm is bad. Very fucking bad. He thinks he can even see a bone sticking out of one side. And god, looking isn’t helping.

“Where we going?” Trevor’s mumbles voice hazy, hardly awake at all. 

“To the fucking hospital.” Michael slides Trevor into the passenger seat of the truck, slamming the door behind him. The keys are in the ignition. He thanks whoever up there is still listing with the thing starts. They’re pulling out of the lot just as the other two gas tanks explode with a hard burst, raining sparks across the parking lot.

After a few minutes on the road siren’s flash past them as they drive. Blues and reds darting past, towards the glowing orange in the rear-view mirror. 

Trevor’s dead silent in the seat beside him. Michael glances over every now and again. Stupidly he reaches out, snatching his hand in his. The fingers tighten ever so slightly against his. 

“Fuck,” Michael mutters to himself, “fuck, fuck.”

He pulls into the ER with a screech of breaks, yelling out for help. Orderlies ease Trevor out of the front seat, strapping him down to a gurney and shoving him through the front door, hardly noticing Michael at all. 

Michael follows stupidly behind them. They get Trevor into the main corridor and then slow, a doctor hurrying over to evaluate the situation. 

Michael leans back against the nearest wall. He feels useless, helpless, and unbelievable stupid. He let’s his head fall down. There’s blood on his shirt. He pulls his head back up, swallowing a wash of sickness.

He gazes numbly down the hall. There’s people that way, waiting in chairs lined against the wall. People crying, people staring, and suddenly he recognizes a set of faces pressed amongst them. Blake’s there. And the rest. All of them. Christie and Amanda are on either side of Blake, holding her hands. Jackson’s there too, looking like he’s asking questions she won’t answer. Amanda’s head turns. She catches his eye and holds it.

Trevor’s just past the bend in the hall way, flat on the gurney. He realizes they can’t see him.

“Hey! Michael!” Jackson suddenly calls out, catching sight of him too.

The doctor by Trevor’s side turns to a white-board suddenly, the rest of the activity following him. 

“Mikey,” a weak voice calls. 

Trevor isn’t looking at him. He might not even know he’s there. 

His hand lifts. Just slightly. Searching, reaching.

“Michael?” Jackson calls.

Michael turns away. From them. From Trevor. From all of it. 

He walks back the way he came as quickly as he can, swallowing hard, trying to blink the hot scratching feeling away from his eyes. 

The warmth of the air wraps around him as the sliding doors pull apart. He pushes through it, shoving the sickness as deep in his gut as it will go. He doesn’t stop walking until his bed smacks him hard against the shins. He lets himself fall onto the mattress. He stares numbly at the white of his wall, and behind him, dawn beings to peer in through the darkness of the windows.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, yeah, quick update, but I couldn't help it - thanks so much to everyone who's commented and enjoyed this story, and check out the end note for some more goodies <3

“Crews are finally clearing away what remains of the explosion that took place last night. It appears to have originated with three vehicles which were lit on fire in the school parking lot. We cannot know exactly when this took place but the earliest 9-1-1 calls place the first explosion at 10:28 PM.”

Michael sits at the kitchen counter in his boxers and a t-shirt. He leans heavily on the cool of the kitchen counter, watching the images play across the small TV nearby. 

“Now, Sarah,” the reporter continues, “I’m here with the chief fire investigator on the scene. Can you share with us what it is you think happened here?”

Michael rubs one of his eyes firmly. He’s hardly touched the cereal he poured out for himself when he got down here half an hour ago. He’s still exhausted. Sleep was yet another thing that didn’t go so well last night.

The man on the TV leans the microphone towards a weathered looking older woman with a helmet under one arm.

“Well, we can safely say the explosion took place at around 10:30 last night. We’ve determined that it was caused by poured gasoline on the three vehicles, which means that the fire was set by hand, but it seems that any early speculation on the motivation would point to destruction rather than violence against any individuals.”

“And what makes you say that?”

“This wasn’t a bomb or anything along those lines, I want to make that very clear for everyone. The parking lot was empty when the cars went up, and the cars were luckily far enough away from anything else that the fire was contained, so it seems like a pretty cut and dry case of malicious property damage.”

“Then, there’s no evidence to support the claim that this is an act of terrorism against the high school football team?”

Michael groans.

“No. I don’t think there’s any evidence to support that.”

“Even though the explosion took place just after the home team returned to this very parking lot, and some are saying the cars belong to three of the star players?”

Fuck.

“Even so,” the inspector continues. “Look, it’s all very concerning of course, but based on my personal experience I would lay it down to a teenage prank gone too far. The real blessing here is that the fire didn’t spread. Despite the rainstorm last week things are still dangerously dry. The entire field might have gone up before we caught it.”

“But can you confirm that the vehicles here did belong to members of the high school football team?”

“The owners of the vehicles will be reached out to individually once we have confirmed ownership.”

Michael’s gut twists sharply. He pushes the cereal away. With a sigh he lets his head fall onto the cool countertop. Thank god his parents aren’t home.

How did things get so fucked up so fast? How is it that just a few weeks ago everything was so damn different? And how is it he’s not sure if he’s sorry for that or not?

There’s a knock at the door.

Michael goes very still.

The knock comes again. He turns, looking towards it, but from where he is he can’t see who’s outside. 

Is he going to go over there, open it? What if it’s… but no. Trevor isn’t really the knocking type is he? Maybe it’s the police. Shit, this morning really is turning into the most fucked of his life, isn’t it?

Michael heads for the door slowly. His hand hesitates on the cool of the handle before finally tugging it open.

Amanda stares back at him.

“Oh,” Michael manages.

She looks tired too, like she hasn’t slept either. Her car is pulled into the driveway, backpack in the front seat. She’s heading into school.

She frowns. “Where’s you car, Michael?”

He sighs, stepping back from the door. “Just come in, okay?” 

She hesitates but finally steps through. She follows him back to the kitchen where he collapses back into the stool behind the counter.

“What happened last night, Michael?” she presses.

Michael groans loudly, holding his head in his hands. “A lot. Fucking a lot. Too much.”

“That’s your cars on the news isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he manages. “That’s right.”

“And that _was_ you we saw last night? At the hospital?”

Michael looks back to her, brow furrowing. “How’s Coopers?”

She shakes her head, pacing on the other side of the counter. “Fucked up.”

“How fucked up?”

“Fractured jaw. Broken nose. Ten stitches in one arm. He won’t be able to play in the game.”

“Fucking deserves it,” Michael swears under his breath.

“Michael!” Amanda shoots back.

“He does!” Michael suddenly yells. “They were going to _kill him_! Christ, Amanda, you should have seen how they teamed up on him, no one fucking deserves that.”

“Just Coopers?”

“Hey, _Coopers_ ,” Michael points, “started the whole damn thing. And Ramirez broken Trevor’s arm Amanda, _his arm_ , the fucking bone was sticking right out of it!”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“Yeah. He was at the hospital too. I saw him go by on the way to surgery or something.”

Michael stares ahead, not sure what to say.

“It was… pretty fucked,” Amanda mutters. “The whole thing.”

“Yeah.” Michael agrees.

Amanda doesn’t speak for a moment, her arms crossed firmly in front of her chest. She’s watching the images play across the TV numbly. 

“They said he had your jacket,” Amanda finally says, voice quieter than before. “In his car.”

Michael doesn’t know what to say.

“We’re broken up,” she says gently. “Aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” Michael says. “Yeah, I think so.”

She gazes at the TV, expression numb and still. 

“This is my fault,” Michael croaks eventually. “Everything Mand. All of it. This is all my fault.”

She let’s her mouth open. “I think you’re right.”

Michael stares at her. She keeps her eyes on the flashing images: helicopter footage of the fire being put out by two fire engines, the flashing lights, blue and red filling the dark of parking lot.

He swallows, looking away.

“You were right,” he says.

“About what?”

“About me. About me not knowing where the fuck I am and what that ends up getting me. If I had just been honest, really fucking honest just for once, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Amanda turns her eyes towards him, sparkles catching against her eyeshadow. “You can always start. Now. Being honest.”

He gazes back. Honest.

“Could you do me a favor, Mand?”

“What?”

“Could you drive me someplace?”

She holds his look for a moment longer. She nods. “Sure.”

 

The sun is already high in the sky by the time the Amanda’s car comes to a stop. Michael stares out of his window, trying to convince his stomach to stop imploding and just stick with him a little bit longer.

“Michael,” Amanda starts. “Are you sure about this?”

Michael takes a deep breath. He looks out his window. The police station stares back. “No.” 

He opens the door of the car and heads for the building before he can have time to actually think about what the hell he’s about to do. He can hear Amanda drive away behind him as the glass door swings shut. 

Inside the station things are rushed and close, cops moving hurriedly from one room to the next, others crammed against desks or into cheap chairs along the walls.

A stouter woman in uniform moving quickly across the floor towards him.

“Uh - ‘scuse me,” he starts.

“Wait at the desk,” she answers, not slowing.

“I came to talk to someone about the fire. In the parking lot,” he swallows. “I… I know what happened.”

“Yeah. You and ten other people waiting,” she snorts, but she’s slowing now, almost stopping.

“No, I’m,” he slows, but god it’s too late now isn’t it, “I’m Michael Townley, it was my car, with the other two. I was there.”

She stops then, turning to evaluate him with a skeptical frown. “You own a 2013 Audi, black?”

“2014,” Michael corrects.

“Hmm. Right.” Her eyes trace his face for a moment longer. “Alright Michael Townley, come with me.”

She leads him back deeper into the station, out of the chaos of the lobby and through a door to the lower hum of the desks and offices. 

“Hey, Sam,” she calls loudly. Towards the back a guy in his thirties with a neat goatee looks up from where he’s leaning over someone else’s desk.

“What’s up?”

“I’ve got a Mister Michael Townley here to speak with you.”

“What?” the guy moves away from the desk, heading towards them. “I haven’t sent anyone round their residences yet.”

“Yeah, well, looks like he got the jump on you.”

Sam comes to a stop in front of Michael, looking down at him carefully. “Yeah. Townley. Seen you on the news, son. Got a decent arm on you, huh?”

“That’s what they say,” Michael answers.

“So, what brings you down here?”

“It was my car.”

“Yeah, we got that part.”

“I know what happened. I was there.”

“Is that a fact?”

“It is. Sir,” he adds, doing his best not to sound like too much of a smart ass.

“Well, you’d better come with me, huh Mister Townley.” Sam turns away, giving the other officer a wave of thanks. He leads Michael across the floor of the station, opening a rickety door at the back and moving into the office. Michael follows, dropping into the uncomfortable seat opposite of the desk. The chair behind the desk looks far more comfortable as Officer Sam slides into it, but maybe that’s the point.

“So then, Townley, what do you have to tell me?”

This is it. No turning back. 

Michael takes a deep breath. “I set that fire.”

The officer raises an eyebrow. “That right?”

“That’s right.”

“And how exactly did that happen?”

Michael focuses, posture sinking into that reliable confidence it always does around a solid lie. He feels his voice shift just how it ought to, uncertain, concerned, and fucking terrified. That part isn’t too hard. “It was stupid. That’s all just really fucking stupid, officer. We had gotten back from the game, and we won, and we were feeling good you know, real fucking good. Too good. And we wanted to celebrate.”

“Mmm,” the officer answers, listening closely. “Then what?”

“God… shit I’m sorry, I didn’t— I had a bottle of booze in the car and we drained it. It was stupid, I know, really fucking stupid but we were feeling _so_ good and we just wanted to celebrate and then… things got a little stupider.”

“What happened to the cars?”

“I just… I wanted to do something crazy. I don’t know why, I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking, but like I said we got drunk, and we suddenly thought it would be a great idea. Like the movies, you know? Something epic and exciting. So… I doused, and I lit it, and it was me. The other guys, Coopers and Ramirez, they had nothing to do with it. It was my fault, and it was stupid. So damn stupid. I know that now.”

The officer stares at him very carefully. “Someone could have been seriously hurt, son. You realized that?”

“I know, I know, and with all due respect sir, we were just putting ourselves in danger. And yeah, that was dumb, really fucking dumb, but we would never have done anything like that if there was any chance anyone else was going to be there. The lot was empty. Had been for a while. They were our cars. Like I said, we were just being very stupid.”

The officer leans back slowly in his seat, tapping a pen idly against the arm of his chair. “You’re putting me in a tough spot here, Townley.”

“Sir?” 

The officer sighs, leaning forward on his desk. “When we realized this was your car we pulled your records. You’re clean. Not a thing on your file. And here you come telling me that this was all you, that you didn’t mean to hurt anyone, and making it all seem just fine, and it’s not fine, not by a long shot.”

“I know that, sir. I’m not making excuses. I’m just trying to do the right thing.”

The officer considers him a moment longer. “What about these other two kids, Coopers, Ramirez, where do they fall into this? That Coopers I hear is in the hospital. That from this?”

“No, sir,” Michael continues, “we scattered after the explosion. I think they ran into some trouble. There’s a kid, Craig Jones. Used to go here. He’s been giving us a hard time.”

“Ah yes, Mister Jones. Now, unlike you, he has got a record.” The officer leans forward again. “You’re sure he’s not the one who torched those cars?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sure.”

The man sighs, running a hand through his hair. “You’re timing is really great kid, you know that. When’s that championship game?”

“Thursday.”

Officer Sam groans. “Perfect.”

Michael adjusts in the chair. It’s quiet for a moment.

“Am I…” he starts, “under arrest?”

The officer stares back a him for a long moment. “No. You’re not under arrest. But I am going to need to call your parents. Now.”

“They’re out of town. My mom’s at a spa retreat and my dad’s on business in the city.”

“He got a cell phone?”

“…Yeah.”

“Then give me that number.” The officer slides over a pen and a notepad. Michael scribbles it down quickly, stomach fighting between relief at not being in handcuffs and the anticipation of what fresh hell will tumble down on him the second his dad picks up that call. 

“Good.” The Officer takes the paper back, lifting the desk phone off the receiver. “You can wait outside, Townley. Don’t leave.”

“Sure, course,” Michael nods, easing out of the uncomfortable chair and out the door. The station is still moving around them. A few more people are staring at him than there were when he first came in. 

He can’t hear the conversation through the door, just the hum of someone speaking firmly and constantly. He feels the weight of his phone in his own pocket and finds himself turning aside, stepping just back into quieter corner between a set of lockers and the doors to the bathrooms, out of sight and earshot of the rest of the station.

He dials. It rings once.

“What?” Ramirez answers, gruff and strained.

“I’m at the police station.”

There’s a moment of silence. “You serious?”

“Yeah.”

“Then are they gonna pick him up, that psycho? It’s been on the news all fucking morning—“

“I told them I did it.”

More silence. 

“What?”

“I told them the whole story: how we got back from the game, drank that bottle of vodka, got a little punchy and I decided it would be a good idea to light our cars on fire.”

“Mike… I don’t—“

“Told them too how you both must have run into Craig after we all ran for it when the cars went up. He and his goons really battered Coopers around.”

There’s nothing but quiet on the other end of the line.

“So it’s my fault. Isn’t it? No one else. Good thing no one else was hurt, no one had their arm broken or anything like that. Assault wouldn’t be a good charge for anyone. Lucky it was just us, huh? Just some drunk idiots too high on some damn good football. Kids being idiot kids. I think that keeps things a little easier. Don’t you? Wouldn’t want for things to get complicated.”

It’s quiet for a long moment. Michael almost starts to wonder if he’s hung up.

“It was just you?” Ramirez asks. “You did the damage, and we weren’t involved. We tried to tell you to cut it out, but you must have not heard us. The cars are on you?”

“Yeah man. Just me. And too bad about you running into Craig.”

“Yeah,” he returns steadily, finally, voice leveling with added confidence. “Yeah too bad.”

“You remember all that, don’t you?”

“Yeah. Sure. Course.”

“Good.” Michael hangs up.

Behind him he hears the office door open again. “Townley?”

He steps back from around the corner.

“Good news,” the office returns. “Your dad’s available to pick you up after all.”

It’s over an hour before he arrives. Michael can feel the air change the second his father steps through the door, as if he’s carrying ten extra degrees of rage right along with him.

He bursts into the back office with three frantic officers trying to convince him to wait and obviously loosing that battle.

“Michael,” he levels the second he’s within eyeshot. “Wait in the car.”

“Uh, I don’t know if I’m—“

“Where’s Officer Samuel Mann?” His father yells. The man Michael was speaking to steps out of his office.

“That’s me.”

“Is my son arrested?”

“No, sir.”

“Wait in the car, Michael. Now.”

Michael stares from his father to the officer who finally gives a short nod. Michael shows himself out.

It’s two hours before he sees his father again. The sun’s already made it’s way across the sky, starting to dip down on the opposite side of the horizon. His father sweeps out of the station finally, heading directly for the car. He opens the door and slides in. Michael tenses, waiting for the inevitable.

It doesn’t come. His father simply starts the ignition and turns the car back towards the house. 

When they arrive Michael follows him inside, letting the front door shut behind him.

“Dad, look I—“

His father slaps him full across the face.

Michael staggers, the shock of it far worse than any pain. He holds his face, staring back and instantly has to stop himself from lunging at him and knocking his own fist into his jaw as hard as he fucking can.

“Never again,” his father grits. “Do you understand me? I am _never_ sticking my neck out for you, for anything like this, _ever_ again.”

Michael stares at the floor as hard as he can. If he looks at his father’s face the rage might just spill right over the edge. “What’s going to happen to me?”

“Nothing is going to happen to you. That’s what you get for your little stunt. Nothing. You will not be charged. The investigation will cease. You will remain on the team. You will remain at school. And none of this, none of it will touch your record.”

Michael glares down at the entry way tiles, trying to decided wether or not he’s even glad.

“You are never _ever_ going to put me in this position again. Is that understood?”

Michael doesn’t answer.

“ _Is that understood_?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

Michael pulls his eyes up, cheek still throbbing. “Yes, sir.”

“I’m leaving,” his father says, pushing past him back to the door. “I don’t know how the hell I’m going to excuse this to the firm, but you couldn’t care less. Could you?” He pulls the door open, heading back into the heat and slamming it behind him.

Michael stares at the door for a long moment. His hand closes around his phone in his pocket, pulling it back out. 

He runs his thumb over the screen before finally tapping Trevor’s number.

It goes straight to voicemail.

Michael swears softly, voice feeling strange along in the empty hall. 

Bed feels a lot easier this time around. He lays on his back, one arm over his head, staring at the ceiling. Slowly, he lets his eyes close, and tries to remember the sound of the rain.

 

It’s dark when he opens his eyes again. The streetlight is casting hollow shadows across the room. Michael sits up with a sigh, rubbing his eyes hard. His hand moves blindly to his phone on the mattress next to him. No missed calls. No missed texts. Nothing. He sighs, standing with a stretch and heading for the rest of the house.

He should drive over there. Right now. That’s what he should do. But he doesn’t have a car, does he? Perfect. Fucking perfect. 

There’s a light on downstairs. He hesitates on the stairs, imagining his father pacing up and down the kitchen, ready to tell him ten more times what a piece of shit he is. But it’s quiet. Almost peaceful. It never feels like that when his father’s here. Michael runs a hand down his cheek and heads down the stairs.

The light is coming from the kitchen. For a moment his stomach tightens, hopes. He turns the corner. 

His mother’s standing by the counter. Her back is to him, hair done up exactly as it should be, a floral blouse hanging off her thin shoulders. There’s a glass on white wine on the counter next to her.

“Mom?” he says.

She turns, gaze falling on his with a small smile that only goes as far as her lips. Her eyes hold a different emotion, a hollow sort of sadness mixed with wearing worry.

“Hello, Michael.”

“What are you doing here? I thought your retreat was a few more days.”

“Was that your car on the news?”

Michael swallows. “Yeah.”

“And you’re alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, mom, I’m fine.”

“Good.”

She lifts the wine to her lips again, taking a long slow sip.

“There was a boy outside,” she says quietly.

Michael feels his stomach jump. “What?”

“There was a boy. Standing in the yard. I don’t think he wanted anyone to see him.”

Michael starts moving for the backyard. 

“He’s been gone for a while now,” she calls to him. “He wasn’t here long.”

Michael stops at the glass of the sliding door, staring out into the blackness of the yard. Strange shapes cast across it from the spindly street lamps out on the road.

“I’ve seen him before. Standing in the yard,” his mother continues. Her voice is different somehow. Perfectly calm, but clearer than he’s heard it in a long time. “Last time I saw him, he didn’t seem so alone.”

Michael swallows hard, turning towards her. “Mom, look—“

“Can I give you some advice, Michael?” Her stare is shockingly hard on his. Sharp and clear as anything. 

He doesn’t answer, just stares back at her, suddenly unable to look away.

“It gets harder,” she says. “Every day, it gets harder. To not care what the rest of the world thinks. You let those voices in, and bit by bit, they drown out the voice deeper inside. And one day, you wake up, and you can’t even that voice any longer. As though it’s another language you knew a long time ago. You look around at your life and it feels as if it’s someone else’s. It’s theirs. They gave it to you. But it wasn’t a fair trade. Nothing comes for nothing. They took something away, and this is what you’ve gotten back in return. A husk of a thing. And you don’t even know what the truth of yourself looks like anymore.”

Michael stares back at her. There’s something hot behind in his eyes. 

“I’m sorry, Mom.” His voice sounds rough in his ears, rawer than it ought to. “God, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Michael, don’t be sorry.” She smiles gently. “Do better.”

She sets her wine back down on the counter, gaze already drifting back into something hazy and familiar. She reaches into her pocket and slides something across the table. Keys.

“You can borrow my car for a few days. It seems like you need one.”

Michael steps quickly to the counter, taking the cool keys in his hand and moving towards the door. He stops, turning back. “Thanks, mom.”

She smiles with a soft nod. 

He turns and heads as quickly as he can out the door.

The air slashes past from the open windows of the car, heat swirling and shoving against him. He drives as fast as he dares. Pulling the car tight around the corners of the asphalt, then the dirt, and finally peeling to a stop in front of the familiar shape of the trailer. 

It sits quiet and lopsided against the night, all dark, perfectly still, like something forgotten ages ago.

Michael stumbles out of the car, hurrying to the door. It’s locked. He slams a hand against it a few times. No answer.

“Shit. _Shit_.”

He takes a deep breath, staring around at the night. The moon is high enough that it’s easy to see, even in the darkness. The other trailers sit a ways off, gentle golden lights in the windows. The scrubby shrubs, broken bottles, and other abandoned things watch him in silence, still and blue against the night. 

Michael hurries off the porch, towards the winding sandy path that’s become so familiar. It feels strange walking it alone, twists of rock and bundles of cacti looking different than they did before, but he keeps heading forward, keep an eye out every step of the way for something, anything. Finally the path eases away, leaving just the edge of the bank ahead. Michael steps up it, the salty breeze off the ocean pushing through his hair, against his jeans. 

There’s no one. Nothing.

And why should there be? Does he deserve anything more than this: an empty beach and a sick feeling creeping around his insides. Maybe it was all just some dream anyways. Maybe that’s all it ever would be. Dreams. The taste of salt on skin and laughing without thinking without caring, smiling up at stars and falling asleep with the weight of something truly happy slung over him as real and present as the thin arm across his chet. Nothing but a dream could feel that real. 

Something swells in Michael’s throat. He swallows it hard.

“I’m sorry,” he feels himself mutter. The thing tightens in his throat and he’s suddenly yelling, yelling as loud as he can. 

“I’M SORRY! DO YOU FUCKING HEAR ME? I’M SORRY! For everything! Anything! Fuck… Fuck me. I’m fucking sorry.”

There’s no answer. Of course. Just the sound of the ocean, the light wind pushing against the shrubs. It’s no surprise. He wasn’t expecting an answer, was he? 

He looks at the sea for a moment longer, closing his eyes and breathing in deep. The walk back to the car feels longer this time around.

 

The stands surrounding the football field have never been so full. 

Michael stares out at the crowd, towering the bleachers on all sides. There’s got to be some safety violation, something, it looks like the goddamn colosseum. Sounds like it too. Feet pound on the metal of the bleachers, thudding out a steady hard rhythm. Chants burst from all sides, the girls in the front, hardly able to keep up with the sheer energy flowing off the crowd.

“ALRIGHT!” coach yells, the team gathered close, his voice rising to carry over the volume of the stands. “We made it! So let’s get out there and show them what we’ve got! For Coopers!”

The team echoes the chant. Ramirez catches Michael’s eye for a moment. Michael holds it before looking away. The coach gives one final roar, some words Michael hardly hears before they all break away, shiny uniforms pulling towards the field like shells on the tide.

The white bright of the stadium lights pour down over all of it, drenching the the faces in the crowd and the green of the turf all in blinding light. 

Michael lets all of it wash over, settle under his skin tight and electric. This is it. Now they just had to play. 

Strange. How now, standing here, he’s having a hard time remembering why it matters.

“You good, man?” Jackson’s voice calls next to him, jogging towards the field.

“Yeah.” Michael turns, slamming his helmet into place. “Let’s go.”

The other team is already halfway onto the field. They’ve got a decent turnout on their side. Staring at the stands it’s almost equal parts home blue and visiting yellow, and that just makes the cheers rise even louder, daring each other higher and higher.

The team jostles into their lines. Michael can hear his own breath loud against the inside of his helmet.

He drops into position. Everything falls still. Each player waiting. Ready. He takes two good breathes and then with a short shout calls the play.

Each body snaps into action, cleats scuffing up the turf underfoot, short grunts and snaps as the action moves from one player to another. Calls pierce the air, the feeling of the ball catches under his hands, rough and familiar. And all of it, every sense, every sound, feels distant somehow, like it’s happening just out of reach. It doesn’t matter. He’s moving through it all the same.

The ball suddenly slams into his hands. A defenders heading right for him. Ramirez knocks them back with a hard clash. Michael snaps back, eyes scanning, his shoulder cocks, he throws.

Jackson catches it with a jumping stumble, crashing over the end-line as the home fans scream, exploding to their feet like one wave.

Hands slap onto Michael’s shoulders, friendly knocks and punches as their lead slides onto the scoreboard above it all. 

It doesn’t stay their long.

He didn’t expect it to be easy, that would be beyond stupid, but the struggle still comes in like a kick in the shins. They gain a yard. Loose a yard. The defense is vicious, never letting up, not for a second. He’s knocked down hard once, twice, six fucking times, the ball bouncing out of his grip each one. The offensive keeps pushing their line, working the weaknesses, grabbing at the edges and doing it’s best to tear them apart. 

By the time half is called he feels like he’s going to collapse. The rest of the team doesn’t look much better.

Down in the locker room the sound of thudding feet and screaming fans pounds through the concrete, oozing in around them. Coach is yelling at them as he points at the white board, gesturing to different players, lining up strategies, identifying weaknesses. 

Michael doesn’t hear him. He isn’t listening. What the hell is there to listen to? The distance between this and him feels thick and foggy. He drops his head into his hands running his fingers thickly through his hair.

He has to focus. This matters. It does. Doesn’t it? The noise of the crowd above drifts in, transforming into a thud behind his eyes, a steady endless rhythm lost in the haze between him and everything else.

He blinks at the brightness as they step back onto the field, moving into place. Amanda and the girls are just finishing in front of the stands, ponytails bouncing, skirts flashing blue and bright against the white of the lights. 

Michael jogs behind the rest, the grass scuffing under the tread on his shoes, the smell of sweat and turf wafting up around them. He feels shoulders jostle against his as they line up again, voices numb in his ears. He bends down, the closeness of all those other bodies muffling the noise of the crowd. The action snaps back around them with one sharp yell.

Michael jogs back, letting his feet carry him without thought where he knows they need to go. He peers across the field, looking for Jackson, waiting for the play, but it’s not Jackson he sees. There’s something else.

Someone is standing a little ways off the field. 

They’re standing away from the bleachers. Away from the crowd. 

Thin. Taller. One arm hanging a little funny. Watching the game. Watching him.

The ball suddenly slams into Michael’s hands. He blinks at the shape on the edge of the field. It’s still there. 

“MIKE,” Jackson yells, popping out just where he should be twenty yards down. “MICHAEL!” 

Michael’s hands tighten on the ball and before he realizes it, he’s running. 

The team staggers around him, trying to make the most of the unexpected turn of events. He feels hands snatching at his shoulder, he turns, twisting them off, feeling the two bodies stumble to the ground behind him. Someone darts in front of his path. He slams them full speed. They do down hard and fast. Cheers explode in his ears, but he hardly hears them. He doesn’t even slow. Two more defenders, coming on from either side. Jackson is still yelling but he’s behind him now. The two close in. Michael grits his teeth and sprints hard, passing them, outpacing them. All they do is close in behind, diving at his heels, but it’s too late. They crash to the turf and he’s already there. 

He rips across the end-line as the crowd explodes into maddened screams on all sides. He doesn’t stop running. The ball falls out of his grip, rolling across the field under the white lights. He tugs his helmet off, chucking it down to the ground. He half expects him to turn and run. Maybe that’s why he’s moving so fast. Michael closes the last yard, he can see his face now, lips pulled into a frown but eyes sparking with a curious fire. Michael doesn’t slow. He doesn’t stop. As soon as he’s close enough his hands snatch, pulling him close in one motion and kissing him as hard as he can under the brilliance of the stadium lights. 

Trevor’s limbs seize in shock, for a moment, just a moment, before he melts into him all at once. Michael hoists him up around his waist with one motion, Trevor’s good arm wrapping around his neck white his cast is trapped between them, mouth hot, and hard and _god_ he hadn’t realized just how badly he’d missed that. How could you miss anything that damn much?

The crowd suddenly sounds a lot quieter behind him and he couldn’t care less. All he can feel is Trevor: his hands on his neck, the taste of him on his tongue, the weight of him solid and present and tight on his waist.

Eventually, slowly, Trevor pulls back. Michael let’s him slide back down to the grass. Trevor stares back at him.

He licks his lips once. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Michael answers.

Trevor smirks, looking over Michael’s shoulder. “You’re losing.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmm,” Trevor notes. His eyes are brighter than he’s ever seen them. “You know, as a general policy, I really only date winners.”

“Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Well,” Michael grins, heart still hammering his his chest, “I’d better go fix that then.”

“You’d better.”

He holds his eyes for a second longer before stepping back, letting go of his hand last. He jogs back to the field, nothing but shocked silence greeting him on all sides. 

The team stares back at him. His team. The visitors team. He gazes back then slams his hards together hard. “WHAT THE FUCK WE STANDING ROUND FOR? LET’S FUCKING GO!”

The teams scatter in shock, falling back into motion as the ref’s whistle sounds with a stumbling blow.

Ramirez is still glaring at him as they line up. Michael winks at him once before dropping into position, smile thick across his cheeks.

 

It’s a dry day. Again. 

Michael’s starting to wonder if the rain they got a few days ago was the last they’d see for a while. But hey, least it was something. 

He moves across campus at a good pace, all the familiar sounds echoing around him. 

They’ve still got the banner up in the courtyard. It’s been there since the season ended, “STATE CHAMPS” blazed in scrawling print across the bottom. 

Michael jogs down the short set of brick steps, the final bell ringing behind him as other students push from last classes, easing into the heat of the air to scatter across campus. Jackson catches sight of him across the courtyard, giving a wave. Michael waves back, pace still carrying him towards the parking lot. 

He fiddles for his keys in one pocket, moving his books to rest under the free arm. He heads into the parking lot, thumbing the button on his keys. His new car blink to life, waiting for him. It’s not waiting alone.

Michael steps up to the car, smile already dragging across his face.

Trevor’s leaned against the hood, head titled back and eyes closed against the strength of the sun. He’s wearing another one of those sundresses, pink on this time. Michael’s starting to think he’s subscribed to some monthly delivery service for them. 

Michael steps closer, situating himself between Trevor’s outstretched booted feet. “Hey.”

Trevor hums a greeting, sitting up properly. “What took so long? It’s fucking baking out here.”

“Yeah no shit. Anyways, you don’t actually look like you’re hating it.”

“Still boring.”

“Too bad for you. Some of us actually _go_ to class.”

“Well, aren’t you just special,” Trevor slides forward on the hood, looping two fingers under Michael’s belt.

The voices of other students sound around them as people head to their cars, ready to fuck off for the day. He hardly hears them.

Michael leans forward, kissing him solidly. He feels warm from the sun, lips still lazy.

“So,” Trevor hums, falling back just enough to speak while the thumbs on Michael’s belt pull him closer. “What are we going to do now?”

Michael shrugs. “Anything.”

“Anything?”

“Yeah. How’s that sound?”

Trevor tightens his grip on his hip. “Not too bad.”

Michael feels the warmth of his legs against his, and in this light that colors playing across that damn dress look brighter than anything he’s seen all day. 

“Yeah,” he smiles back, already leaning forward again. “Not too bad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright! Again, thanks so much to everyone who's commented and bookmarked and kudoed and share and reblogged and all the rest.
> 
> I love these two so much and I love writing for them, my next story is already started for this ship and you can check it out: [HERE](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4591731/chapters/10460043)
> 
> <3


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